Ruler of the Sky: A Novel of Genghis Khan

by Pamela Sargent

  The guards below looked up at her, then crouched by their fires. Khulan let the flap fall behind her, ignoring the cold, and gazed in the Khan's direction.

  I am free of you now, she thought, and wondered how he had met the death he feared, whether he had reached out to the spirits or cowered in terror of oblivion.

  She understood why his people mourned him so deeply. His iron will had welded them together and demanded their obedience, and in return, he had kept his promises to them. They would follow the path he had set for them for a time, perhaps for several generations, but would lose their way without him.

  Temujin had once believed Heaven guided him. He had looked so much towards Heaven that he had forgotten Etugen, the Earth. Heaven assaulted the land with storms and ice, tore at it and lashed at it, but flowers and grass always returned to the steppe. He would be remembered as another of the storms that had come upon the earth and darkened it for a while before the clouds were swept away.

  She was free of him and his spirit. His ghost would not haunt a woman who could think of him only with a cold and distant pity. There would be no place in the stories people told of him for a man whose fears, as much as his courage, had made him a conqueror.

  She considered what lay ahead. After he was made Khan, Ogedei intended to make his main camp at Karakorum, in the lands once ruled by the Kereit Khans. Travellers would come there from distant lands to honour the new Khan, and among them would surely be wise men and learned ones, scholars as wise as Ye-lu Ch'u-ts'ai and the Taoist sage. She would summon them to her tent, learn from them, and hear of the truths that would endure when Temujin's conquests were only a memory.

  Khulan turned away from the bier, lifted the flap, and moved towards the warmth and light.

  125

  Checheg yawned as she sat up and pushed her blanket aside. Two months of serving the Khatuns and Noyans at the funeral feasts had wearied her, and there had been her other work to do as well. The mourning would be over soon, the Khan buried before the worst of the winter weather set in.

  Her sorrow over his passing was heartfelt. After over two years in Bortai's ordu, she remained untouched. Yet in the midst of her sorrow, her hopes had begun to flower again. Ogedei would be Khan. He had been too grief-stricken to notice her when she filled his cup, but his sorrow would pass. Her father had said she would belong to a great man; maybe he had meant Ogedei.

  The lambs by the doorway bleated. Old Kerulu peered into the kettle that hung over the hearth. The other three girls grumbled as they left the warmth of their beds. Checheg smoothed down her braids. She had slept in her woollen shift and trousers, but shivered as she pulled on her felt boots; the yurt had grown cold, in spite of the fire. She moved towards the hearth, then took a cup of broth from Kerulu-eke.

  “I've known many sorrows,” the old woman muttered as the girls settled around the hearth, “but this is surely the greatest, knowing that the mightiest of conquerors has completed his life.”

  A man's voice shouted a greeting outside, and Kerulu went to the entrance. Checheg wondered if the shamans had come to claim more sheep for the sacrifices they would make during the Great Khan's journey to his final resting place. Slaves had already been chosen to accompany the Khan; such a great ruler would need many to serve his spirit.

  Kerulu stepped back as five soldiers in sheepskin coats, with the blue sashes of the Khan's guard around their waists, entered and set down a large trunk. “I greet you,” one man said, as the girls rose to their feet. “I have come here to speak the words of Ogedei, son of the greatest of men. Ogedei has decreed that thirty of the most beautiful maidens in this ordu be given a great honour, and these four shall be among them.”

  “I hope they are worthy,” Kerulu said. Checheg narrowed her eyes; surely it was not fitting for the heir to gather maidens he desired before his father was buried.

  “These maidens,” the man continued, “will garb themselves in the finery we have brought. When we take the greatest of warriors to his final resting place, they will accompany us. The Khan's son has decreed that they shall be made bedfellows and companions of the Great Khan, and shall serve him in the next world.”

  Checheg's lungs constricted. Artai screamed, rushed forward, and threw herself at the soldier's feet.

  “I beg you!” Artai cried. “Beat me, send me far away, give me to the lowest of men, but not this!” She clung to his ankle. “Take me to the Great Khan's son—let me speak to him—”

  The man kicked her aside. Kerulu reached for the girl and pulled her to her feet. “Kerulu-eke!” Artai pawed at the old woman. “Help me!”

  “There is nothing I can do.” Kerulu shook her; tears trickled from the old woman's small reddened eyes. “Don't disgrace yourself.”

  Checheg's heart hammered against her chest. The other girls wailed. They had to obey, and might at least be brave. Her father had spoken truly, she thought with despair; his prophecy would be fulfilled.

  The cortege left the camp on a cold, grey morning, and people lined the route to watch the procession pass. A shamaness on a white horse rode in front of the ox-drawn bier, leading a stallion by the reins; shamans in animal masks and hats adorned with eagle feathers sat on the platform beating their drums. Rows of soldiers rode at the sides of the wagons carrying the Khatuns, the Khan's sons and their chief wives, and their servants. More wagons followed with the treasures, slaves, and maidens that would lie in the grave, and behind them came more men with the cattle, horses, and sheep to be sacrificed to the Khan's spirit.

  The people along the route shrieked and tore at their clothes as the procession moved slowly over the bare, brown land. Checheg did not weep and said nothing to the man driving the cart that bore her and the other three Onggirat girls. She had not lost her courage yet, not when the girls were clothed in silk robes and camel-hair coats, not even when they were led to the cart. Their families would be honoured for having their daughters chosen, and would have the rank of those who had given the Great Khan wives. She and her companions could not serve the Khan well in the next life if they showed cowardice in this one, and they would die honourably, without their blood being shed.

  She had spoken this way to Artai, and the words had eased the other girl's fears a little. Being chosen was a tribute to their beauty; the other maidens—Merkits and Naimans, Kereits and Khitans, Uighurs, Tanguts, and round-eyed girls from the west—were among the most beautiful in the camp. Ogedei would honour his father with nothing less.

  Checheg's thoughts were still until the camp was far behind them, the lines of mourners more sparse, the herds only distant forms grazing near the slopes that bordered the valley, and then the terror came upon her. She had felt it before, and now it locked her so tightly in its grip that she could hardly breathe.

  The wind wailed, the carts creaked as they moved, the horses whinnied, and bowcases rattled against the sheathed swords of the men. Checheg's heart throbbed to the distant beat of the shamans' drums. She would lie in the ground, and the earth would close over her. She would never see spring return, taste the first kumiss of the season, laugh with her friends over a bit of gossip, hear Kerulu-eke praise her for her embroidery, milk another ewe, or nurse a small lamb. All the chores she had done sullenly were tasks she would welcome now. She would never be a wife, with her own tent and herds; she would never have a child.

  They might be spared. That futile hope taunted her. Ogedei was said to be kind; he might be moved to spare them, and bury only their ongghons with his father. The shamans might receive a sign that the Great Khan wanted no maidens buried with him, that the girls should live and breed more warriors to fight for his heir.

  Useless wishes, she thought, ones that would only make her end harder to endure. Better to prepare herself for death instead of clutching at her hopes.

  The greyness of the morning was gone. Checheg lifted her eyes to the clear blue sky. Heaven was boundless and pitiless, and the Great Khan was Heaven's Son.

  Tengri sent no ice storms t
o trouble the Khan's procession, and held back the frightful winds that could carry men from their saddles. The stars shone with a brilliance Checheg had never noticed before; at dawn, the sight of the massif in the north filled her with awe. It was strange that she had never seen how beautiful the land was, even now, with the dry, bitter air promising a harsh winter. She no longer feared the openness of the steppe, the wide expanses that had often made her feel exposed and helpless, or the dark forests where spirits could lead someone astray. The valleys between the hills were precious refuges, as comforting as a warm tent; the spirits of the river slept under a covering of ice.

  Each dawn, the shamans sacrificed sheep to the Khan's spirit, and Checheg's lungs filled with the odour of burning flesh. When the Khatuns gathered the other women to burn bones and to pray, Checheg sat among the girls who looked most in need of comfort. While she murmured to them, her own fears were distant. Only when waking, when she recalled where she was bound as if hearing of it for the first time, would the terror seize her before it was dispelled.

  They had been travelling for six days when they came to the swampy land at the base of Burkhan Khaldun. Men had ridden ahead to cut paths through the underbrush and to dig a grave on the forested slope above. The swampland had hardened in the cold, making passage for the bier and carts easier. Amid the foothills below the massif, the mourners raised their tents and prepared to say their farewells.

  The Khan was to be buried on the northern side of the great mountain, where the trees were thicker than on the southern slopes and would grow more quickly over the grave. Two pits were dug, one for the Khan and the other for the animals to be left with him. From the slope, the Khan would look towards the Onon River in the north-east, where he had spent so much of his boyhood.

  The shamans circled the wide, deep pits nine times, striking their drums as they chanted. The Khan's sons, brothers, and generals moved around the pits next, and many of the men said their prayers in choked voices; Temuge Odchigin and Khasar Noyan clung to each other as they wept. The women circled the grave last, their high head-dresses trembling as they threw back their heads to cry out their sorrow. Smoke rose from fires near the grave, filling the air with the smell of burning meat, and Checheg thought she saw spirits dancing in the smoke, hovering near to feed on the sacrifices. Shamans swayed by the fires, their hands and white fur coats splashed with blood; the heads and hides of four horses hung from poles at the sides of the grave.

  On the day the shamans had set for the Khan's burial, Checheg and the other girls were led to the tents of the Khatuns. The Khan's four favourite wives were inside one large yurt with the chief wives of the Khan's brothers and sons; shamanesses in birch-bark head-dresses adorned with hawk feathers sat behind them.

  “I greet you,” Bortai Khatun said to the girls. “It is my wish that you, who will have the honour of joining my husband, share this feast with us.”

  Checheg peered at the Khatun's shadowed face. The folds of Bortai's lids drooped over her eyes; her gnarled hands trembled. Checheg glanced at the girls nearest her, then bowed.

  “We greet you, Wise and Noble Khatun and Honoured Ladies,” Checheg murmured; the others were leaving it to her to speak. “Unworthy as we are to be among those our Khan loved so much, we are honoured to be summoned into your presence.”

  The girls seated themselves in a half-circle on the felt carpets in front of the ladies. Platters of meat and goblets of kumiss were brought to them, and the air soon grew close. Checheg's cheeks flamed as the kumiss warmed her. Most of the girls took little of the horsemeat, but gulped at the drink and held up their cups as the servants near them poured more.

  “I would not have chosen this fate for you,” Bortai said, “and sorrow to see ones so young complete their lives, and yet I could wish to be among you.”

  She meant it, Checheg realized. Had the Khan commanded it, Bortai Khatun would have gone to his grave with joy in her heart.

  Checheg lowered her eyes and glanced at the other ladies. Yisui Khatun stared past the girls, as if she saw something beyond the hearth fire, while her sister Yisugen leaned towards her. Their faces were still much alike, but Yisugen's eyes darted restlessly, while Yisui's seemed blind to everything around her. Khulan Khatun's lovely brown eyes glistened with tears as she looked at the youngest girls, and for a moment, Checheg thought she might plead for them. Ogedei's wife Doregene lifted her cup; her large dark eyes were cold. Only Sorkhatani Beki, with her haunted eyes and trembling mouth, seemed to be mourning as deeply as Bortai.

  “You'll ease my husband's spirit,” Bortai said, slurring her words; her cup had already been filled several times. “I must tell you this—the Khan was not like other men.”

  “He was the greatest of men, Honoured Lady,” Artai said; Checheg touched her friend's hand lightly.

  “I meant,” Bortai continued, “that he was a man who welcomed the love of women as much as he desired their bodies.”

  Khulan Khatun lifted her head. The Khan, Checheg knew, had loved her more than any of his women. A light had come to Khulan's face since the Khan's death, restoring the beauty he had cherished.

  “I say this, young maidens,” Bortai went on, “so that you won't be afraid when your spirits join with his.” The Khatun covered her face, then grabbed at the arm of a servant, who quickly poured more kumiss into Bortai's goblet.

  The shamanesses moaned softly; Doregene dabbed daintily at her eyes. “I was his shadow.” This voice was low and hoarse, the sound of an old woman speaking, yet the beautiful Yisui had said the words. “I stayed with him until he sent me from his tent. He told me once that if I ever disobeyed him, nothing would be left of me but a spot of blood on the ground.” Yisugen Khatun clutched at her sister's hand.

  “I hear his voice still,” Bortai said. “When I thought I would never see him again, he came for me and rescued me.” Checheg's head swam from the drink and the heat inside the tent. This would make it easier, she thought; she would be feeling very little by the time she was led away. Bortai went on murmuring disjointedly of the past, of the times the Khan had triumphed and the times she had feared all was lost.

  You had your life, a voice whispered inside Checheg. You had your husband, your sons and grandchildren, your joys and your sorrows, and I'll never know any of those things.

  “You will lie with my husband,” Bortai Khatun was saying, “as my son has commanded. I can't change his decree, but when I burn an offering to the Khan's spirit, lambs will be sacrificed for you. Love my husband as I have, but also be friends to one another. A man's love binds a woman and protects her, but it's the friendship of women that nourishes her when her husband is absent from her tent.”

  Checheg would watch over the other girls in the next world as she had tried to do during this journey. The next world was much like this one; all her people believed it, so it had to be true. The Khan would hunt with his comrades as he had here, and they would tend his tents and herds with the others who would serve him. Fixing her thoughts on the next world could almost make her wish this life were already past.

  The shamans came for the girls at dusk. Checheg swayed as she got to her feet. Bortai rose, then clasped Checheg to herself.

  “You are brave,” Bortai murmured. “My husband will be pleased with you.” The Khatun released her, then embraced each of the other girls. A young Khwarezmian whimpered, and one of the Khitan girls was crying, but they all followed the shamans from the tent without protest.

  They climbed towards the grave. Torches flickered around the open pit; as Checheg approached, she saw that the Khan's body had been placed in the centre of the grave. He was seated before a table, a cup of kumiss in one hand, and plates of meat had been set around him. The Khan had been given a grave pillow; the legs of a slave who lay dead beneath him protruded from the furs that covered him.

  Men climbed down the sides of the pit to set trunks and golden images near the body. Others set the curving wicker poles of a small tent around the Khan and tied felt p
anels to them. The Khatuns and the other ladies circled the open grave, tore bracelets from their wrists, and threw them into the pit. Drumbeats sounded as the shamans began their chant.

  Checheg's head was clearing in the cold. The people pressing in around the grave were as thick as the trees that had once stood here. Mourners covered the slopes, and their torches seemed as numerous as the stars above.

  “My father and Khan!” Ogedei moved towards the shamans, Chagadai and Tolui at his right. “I cannot bring life to you, but I shall be the shield that protects your great ulus. I shall be the arrow in the heart of your enemy, the scourge of any who dare to defy us, the sword that will increase the empire you gave us.” He halted by the grave and flung his arms wide. “I cannot give you back this life, but you will have all you desire in the next. You will live forever, O Father and Khan, and all the world will bow to your descendants—I swear it to you.”

  The shamans turned towards Checheg. The moment had come, and she would be the first. Her ears pounded to the beat of the drums as she walked forward; a shaman tightened a silken cord between his hands as she came to the edge of the pit. She would show the others there was nothing to fear.

  The shaman lifted the cord, and then he was suddenly behind her, looping it around her neck. She thought of how the body had looked before the tent hid it, the grinning face with jawbone jutting through the skin, the claw clutching its cup. She would lie with that corpse, with cold earth heaped over her. The vision of the world beyond had vanished; there was only the grave, the odour of blood and burned flesh, the darkness of the pit below her. Checheg's hands rose to her neck, catching at the cord, and as she struggled, she knew that she had failed, that the others would see only her terror and not her courage. The cord bit into her neck, and the red sea sweeping towards her in the darkness turned black.