Ruler of the Sky: A Novel of Genghis Khan

by Pamela Sargent

  Yet he could not see this war clearly now. When he centred his thoughts on one engagement, the rest of his army's movements eluded him. He had always seen any war in its entirety, as a pattern of pitched battles, sieges, tactical retreats, divisions separating to engage the enemy in different places, then coming together again. He remembered that Ning-hsia had been under siege all spring, that his general Chaghan had not yet negotiated that city's surrender; but then the positions of his forces along the Yellow River and the Wei, and near the oases of Kansu, vanished from his mind. Ning-hsia was suddenly the whole of the war, all that his clouded thoughts could grasp.

  The city would have to submit soon. Illness and starvation inside its walls were doing as much damage as his troops.

  He did not care for siege warfare, but if an enemy refused to meet him in the field, he had no other way to take its cities. There were ways to shorten a siege—a city by a river, with dams and canals, could be flooded, a walled city set on fire by burning arrows shot over the walls, or afflicted with illness when diseased bodies were hurled from catapults into the streets. He took some satisfaction in having mastered the art of the siege, in knowing that so many of his enemies had mistakenly trusted in their walls.

  His enemies had possessed weapons he did not have, and he had seen that he would have to change his way of waging war to counter them. Volleys from enemy crossbows could fell a wall of advancing men, flame-throwers on ramparts could repel invaders with streams of fire, and bombs of metal fragments hurled from walls could deafen, maim, and panic the soldiers below. He had learned that the men who made such weapons were as essential to him as fearless and disciplined troops, and that their tools changed the nature of war.

  His mind was wandering. He heard no music in his tent, then recalled that he had ordered the musicians to leave. The sound of their lutes had lulled him; he thought of sending for the girls, but was too weak even to call out to Yisui.

  The invisible talons clutched at him once more. He would have to force himself to rise, to go to his pavilion and hold court, listen to couriers and envoys, and watch those around him pretending that his illness would pass.

  A horse was brought to Temujin. His pain increased as he rode to the pavilion, then dismounted; men pressed around him as he entered. His throne sat on a platform at the back of the open tent, surrounded by cushions. The claws dug inside him as he made his way across the carpets.

  The pretence began again. His Uighur and Khitan scribes lifted their brushes; food and drink were carried to the men seated at his right and to the women sitting with Yisui at his left. Pain raced up his arm as he served bits of meat to the men nearest him. His insides burned; the fire he had felt there ever since his horse had thrown him sometimes blazed and occasionally subsided, but never left him entirely. He lifted his goblet, and the talons tightened around his heart.

  He gulped down the kumiss; more was poured for him. By the time the Kin envoys were led before him, the drink fogged his mind, so that he could barely comprehend the speeches Ch'u-ts'ai was translating. The struggle to appear in control, to show these ambassadors the strong man the pretence required, left him unable to concentrate on their words.

  “The tribute you demanded has been brought,” the Khitan was saying. “These servants of His Majesty the Emperor humbly beg his brother the Great Khan to accept their silver and silk, their horses and slaves, and the lustrous pearls that will adorn him and his favourites, in return for peace in their land.”

  Temujin came to himself. He gazed at the two envoys, then turned to his men. “Have you not heard my orders?” he asked. “Is there anyone among you who would dare to disobey my commands? I made a decree when the five planets were conjoined, forbidding excessive slaughter and plundering, and this decree still stands. I command that you make this known to all, so that all shall know the will of Genghis Khan. I have spoken.”

  Ye-lu Ch'u-ts'ai translated these words as Temujin sank back against the throne. His statement bound him to little, but the King of Gold would take it as a promise of peace. The forces commanded by Ogedei and Tolui would encounter a less prepared enemy later.

  He would not ride with his sons, or direct those battles. He was not likely ever to know their final outcome. That was the hardest thing to see inside himself, a vision that only increased his torment—the world as it would be when he no longer lived in it.

  Yisui stirred next to him. She was always near, and every night found her under his blanket. Part of the pretence required that he lie with a woman. Since the woman was always Yisui, who was too proud to let even a slave know that her beauty no longer stirred him, the pretence was maintained.

  She called herself his shadow, and seemed a shadow of herself. The hardness in her voice was gone; he sensed the pity in her for his enemies. She would not dare to pity him.

  How she had angered him, when she was bold enough to speak openly of his end and the need to choose an heir. It had embittered him to know that she was looking beyond his death. Now he was dying, and she shrank from that as though it meant her own demise.

  How he had feared death once. Even now, everything in him rebelled at the prospect, but there was nothing to save him—no generals to hold it back, no guards to shield him, no shamans who could drive it away, no elixir, and no God. He had retreated from death, as he might from an enemy; soon he would have to turn and meet it.

  Heaven had spoken to him once. Tengri's voice had been as clear as those of the people around him, and his dreams had shown him Heaven's will. What he had won surely proved that God had guided him, yet the more he seized, the larger the world he could not grasp seemed to grow. The voices of the spirits had grown fainter, until he could no longer hear them. Sometimes it seemed that he had possessed the world more truly as a boy, when his dream had carried his soul to a mountaintop and shown him a vast camp stretching to all horizons, than he did now, with all the lands and tribute he had won.

  He was a boy again, sitting in Dei Sechen's tent, telling Bortai and Anchar of his dream. He did not know how he would find his way to that mountain summit, but had refused to doubt that he would. Heaven had tested him, forging him into the sword that would unite all who lived under the Eternal Blue Sky. He had learned his first important lesson after his father's death—that everyone who did not submit to him was a potential enemy, that there was no safety for him until all those enemies bowed to him or were destroyed. He might never have learned that without being an outcast.

  “Temujin,” Hoelun said. He heard her voice calling to him more often lately. Of all the women he had known, only his mother and Bortai had ever frightened him, because he had known they truly loved him. Their advice had often been sound, but he had resented the power they had over him.

  “Bortai,” he whispered. His first important battle was fought for her, but accepting Jochi as his son was part of the price of winning her back. He had always suspected that the son of Bortai's captor might eventually become his foe. When Ning-hsia was taken, and the Kin thoroughly cowed, he would punish Jochi for his affronts, for refusing to come to his camp, for imagining that he could grow strong enough to challenge him.

  But Jochi was dead. He had forgotten that, as he had so much in recent months. A courier had brought the news to him that spring; he had presided over a feast in Jochi's memory and sent a message to his heir Batu. With Jochi gone, a grave threat to the unity of his ulus was removed, but the loss of Bortai's oldest son also made his own death seem closer.

  Too many were gone—Mukhali, faithful Jebe, the often faithless Daritai, his stepfather Munglik, whose soul had quickly followed Hoelun's, generals and loyal followers, sons and grandsons he had barely known, and Jamukha. He could still grieve for his anda, but to become what Jamukha had wanted him to be would have meant turning away from his destiny, to become no more than one chief among many. His people would have gone on with their old feuds and struggles, and never known greatness. Jamukha had been another of Heaven's tests. So he had believed, and now H
eaven was silent.

  The warmth of the tent was oppressive; he wondered if his fever was returning. His passion for Khulan had been another fever, but winning her love would only have weakened him. She would have softened his heart then with her pity for his enemies; he had understood that when his fever for her broke. To love any woman too intensely meant giving her power she could not be allowed to have. To bring women to feel what they called love ensured their loyalty, but to share that love deeply was folly. Love alone would not have shown him how to rescue Bortai. Even as he had raged at her loss, a part of him had seen how he could use her capture for his own ends.

  Bortai would watch over his people until the kuriltai approved his successor, but what then? Would his descendants remember the story of Alan Ghoa's sons, and take their ancestor's advice to heart? Would they remain bound together, or, when they had won the world and vanquished their enemies, contend among themselves?

  His aim had been so certain once. His conquests would go on, and if he did not live to see them to their end, his sons and grandsons would continue them. They would go on living as their people always had, but with the wealth the conquered lands would yield to them. The least of them would be the equal of past chiefs; the best of the peoples under Heaven would have the world kneel to them. They would remember the one who had led them to greatness.

  So he had believed, before his doubts deepened. If his descendants learned the ways of the conquered in order to rule them more wisely, they might fall victim to all the weaknesses of settled people, and become prey for stronger men. Yet if they kept their own customs, and remained honed for war, they were likely to fight among themselves when they had no more lands to win.

  The world was not made for Man; the Taoist Master had told him that. If this were true, all his efforts had been no more than those of a stallion leading a herd to better pastures. His people might have only a brief moment of glory, as had the Khitans, the Kin, and the Khwarezmians before them.

  His old dreams mocked him now. The world might shrug off the yoke of his ulus in time, and then his people would have nothing but the memory of what they had been. Perhaps they would lose even that memory. All his work would be for nothing, his name forgotten, his empire lost.

  The tent was filled with men. Temujin had kept to his bed ever since his headquarters had been moved to the foothills overlooking the Yellow River, but his generals still sought audiences with him. He received them in this great tent now, instead of under a pavilion open to the summer air; the effort of moving from his bed had grown too great. Yet as long as no spear stood outside his doorway, the men would go on pretending that their Khan would recover.

  The Han further upriver had a device for grinding grain, a watermill much like a boat. Its paddlewheels, powered by the river's currents, rotated ceaselessly, turning the millstones that ground the grain. As long as the current flowed, the wheels rotated, and the stones continued their work. His army was much like one of those watermills. He had set his forces turning, and they would go on with this war until the current in him subsided.

  “The envoy waits outside your camp.” That was Tolun Cherbi's voice. Yisui had propped cushions behind Temujin, but he lacked the energy to lift his head and look at the general. “He has been told that he won't have the honour of an audience, that the Great Khan has shown him enough courtesy by allowing him to wait while I bring you his message. Li Hsien will surrender his capital of Ning-hsia. The city's running out of food, and many are dead of fever. The envoy asks only that you give his sovereign a month to gather his gifts. His Majesty will bring the tribute to you himself.”

  “I'll grant him that month,” Temujin said.

  “Li Hsien also begs you to spare those left in Ning-hsia after he submits.” Chaghan was speaking now. “He knows that you swore to wipe his people from the earth, but also that the stars warned you against such actions.”

  “This is my order,” Temujin said. “When our army enters that city, they'll take what they want and do as they please with the people. The mercy I've shown to others will not be extended to the defenders of Ning-hsia.” He had another decree to make, in case he did not live long enough to give the command later, “Tolun Cherbi, I give you this task. You'll ride to Ning-hsia, keep close to the Tangut King, and convey him and the tribute here. When I've accepted it, and he's bowed to me, you'll take his life and those of his sons.” He paused. “You'll spare his Queen. I'm told she's beautiful.”

  “She is,” Chaghan said with a laugh.

  “Then I shall claim her. She will be brought to me when her husband is dead.” More pretence, he thought, but his men would expect it of him.

  The wheel would go on turning; he was powerless to stop it. The Tangut King would be crushed by the stones Temujin had set in motion, and the Kin brought to surrender after that. He would have his revenge, but somehow the old hatreds had vanished; it was only that he could not stop the mill.

  He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the men were gone. Yisui leaned over him, a goblet in her hand.

  “The King may have to die,” she said, “but surely you could spare his children and the people of his city. I would enjoy having princes to serve us, and those left alive in Ning-hsia can't threaten you now.” There was pity in her voice. He felt disappointed in her, and in himself; he had failed after all to crush that weakness in her.

  “I've given the order,” he said. “I won't call it back to give you the pleasure of owning more Tangut lives, when I can have the greater pleasure of knowing they won't outlive me. Few pleasures are left for me now.”

  “You'll live forever, Temujin. Couldn't you let them live to labour for you?”

  “Be silent, Yisui. I showed mercy once when you begged it of me, and you are violating the agreement we made then.”

  He closed his eyes. The pleasure he had spoken of would be fleeting, a flame fluttering for an instant before it was extinguished.

  Ye-lu Ch'u-ts'ai, who was so wise, had never truly understood him; Temujin had always known that. The Khitan could not share his world of doubts, or even comprehend it. Whatever torment Ch'u-ts'ai had felt after seeing his world die, he had accepted the one Temujin had made. To bring order to this world, to keep it regulated and in harmony, to act correctly—those were the tasks of a man. He would say that Temujin's nature was that of a ruler, and that he had fulfilled that nature. Man affected Heaven, according to the Khitan, no more than Heaven affected Man. To think that a voice from Heaven might speak to a man would strike Ch'u-ts'ai and his learned comrades as madness; they did not seek a purpose outside the world they were given. But the Khitan had never been an abandoned boy alone on a mountain, hearing the voices of spirits in the wind, seeking for something beyond himself to harden him and guide him.

  In the midst of his pain, as the claws gripped his heart, Temujin pondered the void that might lie beyond death. Was the Eternal Sky only a vault empty of God, or had Tengri simply fallen silent? Perhaps it was easier to believe that Heaven had never truly spoken to him than to fear that the spirits had withdrawn from him.

  His doubts had finally freed him from the fears his shaman Teb-Tenggeri had used to control him, but had also shown him a bleak world without purpose. The more he gained, the more futile his efforts seemed. His end would still be the same—the extinction that his Buddhist subjects saw as a soul's highest goal, but without any Heavenly Presence to swallow that soul.

  He recoiled from that prospect, clinging to the old memories that seemed so much clearer than more recent ones. Perhaps the spirits were silent now only because he had carried out his purpose. Yet part of him still resisted that notion, and whispered that he was only a dying man who would grasp at any consolation.

  He gazed up at the smoke-hole. Yisui was outside, speaking to the guards, but her voice seemed distant. A light suddenly filled the smoke-hole, as though the sun had drawn close to the earth; forms fluttered in the beam of light.

  The ghosts took shape around him. He could not m
ake out who many of them were, but his father and mother were among them, their shining faces those he remembered from his boyhood. Jebe was there, his bowcase and quiver hanging from his belt, and Mukhali, clothed in the silks of Khitai. Jamukha lifted his head; his dark eyes peered into Temujin's soul. At the sight of his anda, the talons squeezed his heart.

  Had the spirits sent these ghosts? No, he told himself; they were only the fevered imaginings of an ailing, desperate man. Already, they were fading; the bright light dimmed. Above the smoke-hole, he saw only a patch of blue sky.

  What purpose was there in his deeds? His descendants would surround themselves with treasure, for a while. They would rule until stronger men surpassed them or the settled lands swallowed them.

  An old man's face hovered over him; Temujin recognized the sage Ch'ang-ch'un. The monk's lips moved, but Temujin could not hear him. The Taoist had given him some practical advice, suggestions for helping the people of Khitai while they recovered from war's devastation and grew accustomed to Mongol rule. Knowledgeable men were needed to administer those lands if the Khan was to have the greatest benefit from them. His advice had echoed Ch'u-ts'ai's, but Temujin had seen the dangers in this course. His successors would grow more dependent on such men, but his people could remain Mongols only by leaving such tasks to them.

  “Consider the body of a man,” Ch'ang-ch'un said. “What is its ruler? It has one hundred parts; which do you prefer? Are some servants, and others masters, or does each part become now ruler, now servant, at different times? Can it be that they are simply a whole that grows and changes, that follows the way of Nature, with no need of a ruler?”

  The Taoist sage was repeating words he had said before. Temujin had barely understood them then, had even wondered if the Master was questioning the rightness of his rule. Now they hinted at an answer to his questions.