Some of the men sang a song about the encounter. The Shah's son had leaped with his horse from a high cliff into the river. The Khan, admiring this display of courage, had let him escape and had praised his example. The song did not mention that only Jalal-ed-din was granted such mercy. The enemy soldiers trying to follow him across the river had been slaughtered, his sons taken prisoner and killed.
Three nights after his return, the Khan came to Khulan's tent. None of the guard had alerted her; she awoke to see him looming over her bed, her slaves cowering in the shadows.
He shrugged out of his coat. “You haven't thanked me,” he said.
“For what?” Khulan asked.
He grabbed one of her braids, yanking her head up. “For allowing you to stay with our son, and to bring him back here. For letting you see the revenge I took for that and for my grandson's death.” He let go. “It will make a good song—the beautiful Khulan riding to her eaglet, finding him safe, rejoicing that those who wounded him are dead. That will have to be part of the song, that you laughed when you found Kulgan alive and the enemies of your beloved husband destroyed.”
She said, “I wept for them.”
“Yes, you would have wept for them, and raged at me.” He stared down at her. “If our son had died, what did you plan for me? A cup of poison, or a knife in my side as I slept?”
“I never—”
“You would never have had a chance to strike at me, and it would have grieved me to have you executed for trying. But it gives me joy to know that even my gentle Khulan can hate.” He tore the blanket away, then threw himself across her.
The reeds by the rivers that flowed south from Balkh were hard and sturdy, strong enough to be used as sticks or as wedges under mired wagon wheels. Khulan and her women had been gathering reeds for most of the afternoon, cutting at them with knives. They had moved to the grasslands south of Balkh to graze their animals; the rivers ran clear, and the trees scattered over the land were growing green.
Life had renewed itself here, and even in the ruined city to the north. Wagons from Balkh arrived bringing melons, dried fruit, grain, and a strange fruit with seeds called a pomegranate. Slave boys set nets in the water or fished with rods from the banks.
As Khulan rode towards her tent, she saw the Khan and Kulgan sitting by one wagon, making spears from the hard bamboo stalks that grew along the river. The two were often together. The young man hunted with his father, sat with Ogedei and Tolui during councils in the Khan's great tent, and rode with Temujin's entourage of guards.
Several men sat with the two, Nayaga among them. Khulan thought of the young man who had told her that he could not take the joy in war that others did. Nayaga had his share of victories, his monuments of skulls. Perhaps he had learned to love war.
She dismounted; the slaves with her lifted bundles of reeds from their horses and set them under the wagons. The guards by her tent drew themselves up as she climbed the steps to the entrance. The four women inside were preparing meat as the Khwarezmians did, spearing the pieces of lamb on skewers to be broiled over the fire. The guards would have to be fed, and her husband usually had several of his men dine with him.
But when Temujin and her son entered, they were alone. This would be an evening for the Khan to flatter Kulgan with his full attention.
Kulgan limped over the carpets behind his father. He would always drag his damaged leg, but no longer used a walking-stick. He stood by the fire with Temujin, warmed his hands, then glanced around the tent. Zulaika grew paler as Kulgan's eyes met hers. The girl they had once called The Mute spoke now, but not often, and when Kulgan looked at her, she kept a fearful silence.
The two went to the back of the tent and sat down on cushions near a low table. Khulan brought them kumiss, then settled at her husband's left as he sprinkled the blessing.
“I thought I would have more to feed,” Khulan said.
“The men went to the horses,” Temujin said. “More of the mares are giving milk. Nayaga was impatient to ride back to his tent—he's still besotted with a girl he found outside Kabul.” He rested his hands on his knees as the slaves set melons in front of them.
Khulan cut at a melon with her knife. That winter, the Khan had finally learned that the Shah Muhammad had died on an island in the Caspian Sea, abandoned by all his followers, hounded there by Jebe and Subotai. Some said he had taken his own life, others that he had died of despair and weariness. The Khan had nearly won Khwarezm, and Tolui was wiping out the last pockets of resistance in the south with the thoroughness he had shown in taking Khorassan. The greatest of generals, the men called him in their songs, perhaps even the equal of his father. Never had so many died at the hands of one man.
“I think I shall order prayers to be said for me in the mosques,” Temujin said. “Now that these people have no Shah, they must regard me as their lawful ruler and protector.”
Kulgan laughed. “There aren't so many left in these lands to pray for us.”
“A year from now, they'll have bred more of themselves. People, like herds of deer, should be thinned out from time to time, or they would become as numerous as insects.” The Khan swatted at a fly. “Here's another thing to remember, son—take what the cities can give, but don't be tempted by their ways. We must live as we always have, and set those who understand cities over them to govern them.”
Khulan sipped her kumiss. Apparently the talk this evening would be advice on governing. She wondered how much Temujin really understood about the men who advised him, his Khitans and Muslims with their wisdom and their books. He spoke as if he had learned many things from them, but his thoughts quickly turned to what he knew best. He might wonder at what Ye-lu Ch'u-ts'ai told him of the movements of the stars, but he would be thinking of the lands under Heaven that he still might claim—Khitai, and perhaps even the land of Manzi that the Sung ruled. Subotai and Jebe were also riding far to the north-west at his orders, to see how the lands there might be taken.
The slaves set out skewers of meat; Temujin and Kulgan gulped the food down. “The Muslims share some beliefs with us,” the Khan mumbled, his mouth full. “They honour the warrior, as we do. They worship Tengri, even though they call Him by another name.” He wiped his hands on his silk tunic, then reached for his goblet. “But a man shouldn't think too much of the next world.” He paused. “You fight well, Kulgan. Your men obey you without question. I plan to give you a thousand to command.”
“Father!” Kulgan's amber eyes glowed. “You honour me.”
They looked much alike, her husband and her son; Kulgan's smaller body had his father's bearing. How foolish she had been to hope Kulgan might be a man like Ye-lu Ch'u-ts'ai, or that his injuries might turn his thoughts from war. Temujin had seen what their son was more truly than she had.
111
“If there is such an elixir,” Ye-lu Ch'u-ts'ai said to the Khan, “then this man may know the secret. But even if he does not, there will still be much he can tell us.”
Khulan glanced up from where she sat among the women. The Khitan was the only one of her husband's advisers who had shown doubts about the sage's reputed powers. Temujin had laughed off his misgivings. He would have the secret; it was Heaven's will.
The Khan had summoned close comrades and his favourite women to his great tent to welcome the sage. Ch'ang-ch'un had finally arrived at his camp, led south through the Iron Gate pass by Borchu and his men. The monk had been travelling for over a year, and had passed the winter in Samarkand. The Khan, who had waited this long to summon him, had demanded to see him immediately.
Liu Wen entered, followed by Borchu and the general Chinkai. Liu Wen made a speech, murmuring of the wise Ch'ang-ch'un who had travelled so far to offer his wisdom, then fell silent as an old man came through the doorway, followed by several younger men. Their plain woollen robes might have been those of simple shepherds. The younger men bowed from the waist; the old one pressed his hands together, then gazed directly at the Khan as he spoke.
“He honours me by coming here.” Temujin leaned forward, searching the old man with his eyes. “Other rulers have summoned him, and he did not go to them, yet he has travelled a great distance to be with me. I am flattered.”
Ch'ang-ch'un murmured to Liu Wen. His voice was low, and gentler than the Khan's, but Khulan sensed the same strength in it. “That I came at Your Majesty's bidding,” Liu Wen said in Mongol, “was simply the will of Heaven.”
“I beg you to be seated,” the Khan replied, then clapped his hands. Women and boys entered, carrying platters of meat and jugs of drink. Everyone was soon grabbing for the food and wine except the monks. Liu Wen explained that Ch'ang-ch'un and his disciples took no meat or strong drink; the Khan quickly ordered that they be given rice.
“The Master lives an ascetic life,” Liu Wen continued as he sat down near the sage. “He eats little, and also doesn't often indulge in welcoming the dark demon of sleep.”
Temujin laughed. “We'll all sleep soon enough—some of us, at any rate.” He had not looked away from the monk seated before him. “It is said that you have an elixir that can prolong life. Have you brought it to me?”
Liu Wen leaned towards Ch'ang-ch'un. The others all watched the monk; Khulan looked up at the Khan. “The Master says this,” she heard Liu Wen say. “I can protect life. I have no elixir that can prolong it, nor do I think such an elixir exists, but this I do know: long life can be found only by working with Nature, not in opposing it. Perhaps we will find the secret someday.”
Temujin was very still. Khulan had expected to see disappointment or rage, but not the terror that filled his eyes, as if he had heard his own death sentence—and for the second time, after hoping to escape the first that belonged to all men. The fearful look vanished in an instant; she looked at the sage and knew he had seen it, too. The old man's eyes warmed; there was pity in them for the Khan's despair.
“You are honest, Wise Master,” Temujin said softly. “I must respect you for that.”
“I can offer Your Majesty some advice,” Liu Wen interpreted. “Abstain from strong drink, and eat only enough to nourish yourself. Sleep alone for a month, and Your Majesty's spirit will be greatly revived. A good night's sleep can do more for a man than a hundred days of swallowing medicines. But such advice, however sound, is commonplace. I travelled here to speak to you of the Way.”
The Khan sank back against his throne. The men glanced at one another uneasily. “I would hear of the Way,” Temujin said.
“Heaven and Earth, the moon and sun, the stars, all demons and spirits, all men and animals, and even the blades of grass, grow out of Tao.” Liu Wen's voice took on some of the quiet power of the monk's as he translated. “The Tao is the Way. I do not mean the way of people, but the Way of the world, the order of Nature and the universe. Only by yielding to it, instead of forcing one's illusions upon it, can a man reach understanding. A man must embrace the universe, seek to know its workings, and to see the unity that is Tao. Do not seek for the beginnings of things, or to follow all changes to their end. Do not demand a purpose of things as they are. The universe is eternal, and was no more made for us than for the locusts that swarm over the earth.”
“I have seen the world for what it is,” Temujin said. “Yet I had hoped there was more ...” His voice trailed off.
The monk spoke again in his gentle voice. Whatever he was saying could give the Khan little solace. Men lived and died, and the world endured; that was not what Temujin wanted to hear.
“When Tao produced Heaven and Earth,” Liu Wen translated, “Man was born from both. Man shone with radiance, but in time his body grew more earthen and his holy light dimmed. He came to desire, and his appetites wasted his spirit. You must nurture the spirit in yourself, that which can rise to Heaven. You have become the greatest conqueror the world has yet seen. Become the greatest ruler, and your memory will live on Earth as long as your spirit does in Heaven.”
Temujin was silent for a long time. He would send the monk away, Khulan thought, perhaps even drive him from the camp.
“We'll feast,” Temujin said, “and two tents will be raised for you. I must hear more from you when you have rested.”
Pride, Khulan thought. Having brought the sage so far, Temujin could not admit that the journey had been for nothing.
Temujin sent his guests away after the feast, but kept Khulan and Ye-lu Ch'u-ts'ai with him. “You are disappointed, my Khan,” the Khitan said. “You had your doubts.”
“I had also hoped, but never doubted the Master's wisdom. It pleases me that you are willing to learn from him still. What he tells you may help you be a wise ruler. Your battles are nearly won here—it is time to build.”
“An empire won on horseback,” Temujin said, “cannot be ruled on horseback. So you have often told me.” He sighed. “I wonder if I'll live long enough to rule it.”
“You have vigour still,” Ch'u-ts'ai said, “more than most men in their fifties, and much of life ahead.”
“You may go, my friend,” the Khan said.
The Khitan left them. Khulan waited for her husband to dismiss her.
“The last time I prayed on Burkhan Khaldun,” he said at last, “the mountain was silent. That silence terrified me. I couldn't tell what Heaven willed for me. I haven't heard the spirits since then, and in this land, my dreams sometimes—”
He sagged against his gilded chair. “I've felt myself swallowed by the earth, trapped in my body, with no place for my soul to fly. I have seen nothingness. It came to me that a man's soul may die with his body, that there's nothing beyond this life. This monk was my only hope to escape that fate.”
“I didn't understand everything he told us,” she said, “but he spoke of the spirit that lives inside all men.”
His mouth twisted. “And he said that the world wasn't made for us, as if what we do is no more than what a herd of horses does when they seek new pastures, or a flock of birds when they fly south. He talks of a spirit inside us, but I haven't sensed it for some time.”
He stood up, swayed, and sat down heavily; his lined brown face sagged with weariness. “Once, Tengri spoke to me. I heard what the spirits whispered clearly in my dreams. The ghosts of my ancestors were as real to me as if they still walked the earth. Once I heard them speak to me through the shaman Teb-Tenggeri, and even when I allowed Temuge to decide his fate, I still hoped Teb-Tenggeri might summon his magic, even if it meant my own death, because it would have shown me that what he claimed was true.” He drank from his goblet, then let it fall from his hand. “When I saw his broken body, I knew that the dead had always been silent, that he had possessed no way of reaching them, that perhaps there were no ghosts to speak to us. Since then, I've known little peace. I pray and hear no answer. I grab at joy and see it flee from me. I think of the grave, and tremble.”
Something in her exulted at his despair. “You have such visions,” she said, “and yet you sent countless people to their deaths. All I could hope for was that the spirits of the dead would know some happiness at last, and now you say that you don't believe that and think they are no more.”
“We are few,” he said, “and our enemies numerous. We could defeat them only by making them too fearful to resist. But I must admit that I took more joy in their deaths than I might have. To think that they might be nothing, that only a void awaited them—I could be happy believing that.”
“You thought they would become nothing,” she said, “but that you might live. I didn't think such evil could be inside one man. If I believed that was all that awaited us, I would have wanted joy for all people while they still lived.”
“Then you're a fool, Khulan. If there's nothing beyond, it doesn't matter what we do here.”
“It matters,” she whispered. “You won't have your elixir now. You'll have to fear the death you brought to so many others. Perhaps that's a fitting punishment.”
“How you hate me,” he said.
“I don't hate you. I pity you. You'll fear death for the rest of your life, and all anyone will remember of you is how much death you brought to the world.”
“Get out of my sight,” he said. She expected him to strike her, but his limbs seemed bound to his chair. “Never come before me unless you're ready to say your last words. I won't look upon your face again.”
“I don't fear death, Temujin.”
“Then fear what I'll make of your life if you ever defy me. Fear the suffering I'll inflict on those you love before you die.”
The Khan always kept his promises. She stood up and crept from the great tent.
The Khan moved his camp to the foothills of the Snowy Mountains to escape the summer heat. Whenever Khulan glimpsed him in the distance, she turned away and covered her face, knowing what would happen if he saw her. She kept inside her own tent when he visited Kulgan's; at least her son had not lost his favour.
Ch'ang-ch'un and his disciples had come there with the Khan, who had set aside an auspicious day to hear the monk's teachings. Khulan often thought of that gentle old man, and the solace his words might bring her, but did not dare to approach his tents or summon him to hers. Her husband would hear of it, and forbid the sage to speak to her. Temujin would hear of the Way, and she would never know more about it. That was part of her punishment, too.
Before the Khan could meet again with Ch'ang-ch'un, word came of rebellion in the south. The Tao was forgotten; the camp was filled with the tumult of men preparing for battle. The Khan would ride with his army to crush the rebellion, to send more people to the death he feared.
She did not go with the other women to see the army off; her son did not say farewell to her. Ch'ang-ch'un, it was rumoured, had asked that he be left behind; the Khan had given the monk permission to return to Samarkand. Two days after the army's departure, the old sage left the camp. She would have no chance to speak to him in the Khan's absence.
Ruler of the Sky: A Novel of Genghis Khan Page 67