Empire of Silver c-4

by Conn Iggulden

  He sighed to himself. It was hard to find peace as the sun went down. He tried to hold on to every moment, but his mind betrayed him, drifting and coming back to clarity with a start. Time slipped like oil through his hands and he could not hold a single instant of it.

  The tumans had gathered in ranks to witness his offering. Ahead of him on the grass, Ogedai stood with Khasar and Mohrol. Mongke waited slightly apart from the other three. Only he looked directly at his father, a constant gaze that was the sole sign of the horror and disbelief that he felt.

  Tolui took a deep breath, enjoying the scent of horses and sheep on the evening breeze. He was pleased he had chosen the simple garb of a herdsman. Armour would have choked him, confined him in iron. Instead, he felt loose-limbed, clean and calm.

  He walked towards the small group of men. Mongke stared at him like a stunned calf. Tolui reached out and drew his son into a brief embrace, releasing him before the shuddering he felt against his chest turned into sobs.

  'I am ready,' he said.

  Ogedai lowered himself to sit cross-legged on one side of him, Khasar on the other. Mongke hesitated, before sitting to one side.

  There was a certain shared animosity as they all watched Mohrol set a taper to brass pots. Thin trails of smoke dragged their way across the plain and the shaman began to sing.

  Mohrol was bare-chested, his skin marked in stripes of red and dark blue. His eyes looked out from a mask that seemed barely human. The four men faced west, and as the shaman worked his way through six verses of the song of death, they stared at the setting sun, slowly eaten by the horizon until there was just a fat line of gold.

  Mohrol stamped the ground as he finished his verse to the earth mother. He jabbed a knife into the air as he called on the sky father. His voice grew in strength, a double tone from his nose and throat that was one of the earliest sounds Tolui could remember. He listened distractedly, unable to look away from the golden thread that bound him to life.

  As the verses to the four winds ended, Mohrol passed a knife into Tolui's cupped hands. Tolui stared at the blue-black blade in the last light. He found the calm he needed. Everything around him was sharp and defined and he breathed deeply as he pressed the blade against his skin.

  Ogedai reached out and clasped his left shoulder. Khasar did the same with his right. Tolui felt their strength, their grief, and it steadied the last of his fear.

  He looked at Mongke and saw the young man's eyes were brimming with tears. There was no shame in it.

  'Look after your mother, boy,' Tolui said, then looked down and took a deep breath. 'It is time,' he said. 'I am a fitting sacrifice for the khan. I am tall and strong and young. I will take the place of my brother.'

  The sun vanished in the west and Tolui pushed the knife into his chest, finding the heart. All the air in his lungs came out in a long, rasping breath. He found he could not breathe in and struggled to control his panic. He knew the cuts that had to be made. Mohrol had explained every detail of the ritual. His son was watching and he had to have the strength.

  Tolui's body had gone tight and hard, every muscle straining as he sipped air back in and wrenched the blade between his ribs, cutting his heart. The pain was a burning brand in him, but he pulled out the knife and looked in astonishment at the rush of blood that came with it. His strength was fading, and as he began to fall forward Khasar reached out and took his hand in fingers that were impossibly strong. Tolui turned his eyes to him in gratitude, unable to speak. Khasar guided his hand higher, holding the grip closed so he could not drop the blade.

  Tolui sagged as Khasar helped him draw the edge across his neck. He was frozen, a man of ice, as his warm blood drained into the grass. He did not see the shaman hold a bowl to his throat. His head lolled forward and Khasar gripped him by the back of the neck. Tolui could feel the warm touch as he died.

  Mohrol offered the brimming bowl to Ogedai. The khan knelt with his head down, staring into darkness. He did not let go of Tolui's body, so that it remained upright, held between the two men.

  'You must drink, my lord, while I finish,' Mohrol said.

  Ogedai heard and took the bowl in his left hand, tipping it back. He choked on the warm blood of his brother and some of it dribbled down his chin and neck. Mohrol said nothing as the khan steeled himself and fought the urge to vomit. When it was empty, Ogedai tossed the bowl away into the gloom. Mohrol began to sing the six verses once again from the beginning, drawing the spirits close to witness the sacrifice.

  Before he was halfway through, Mohrol heard Ogedai vomiting onto the grass. It was already too dark to see and the shaman ignored the sounds. Sorhatani rode hard, calling 'Chuh!' and forcing her mare to gallop across the brown plains. Her sons galloped with her and, with the remounts and pack animals, they made a fine plume of dust, rising behind them. Under the hot sun, Sorhatani rode bare-armed in a yellow silk tunic and deerskin leggings, with soft boots. She was grubby and she had not bathed in a long time, but she exulted as her horse flew across the ancient land of the tribes.

  The grass was very dry, the valleys thirsty. Drought had drained all but the widest rivers. To refill the waterskins, they had to dig into the river clay until water seeped into the hole, brackish and full of silt. Silk had proved its value yet again to strain muck and wriggling insects out of the precious liquid.

  As she rode, she saw the pale bones of sheep and oxen, the white shapes cracked to shards by wolves or foxes. To anyone else, it might not have seemed a great reward for her husband to be given such a dry land. Yet Sorhatani understood there were always hard years there, that such a land made strong men and stronger women. Her sons had already learned to eke out their supplies of water and not gulp it as if there would always be a stream within reach. The winters froze and the summers burned, but there was freedom in its immensity – and the rains would come again. Her childhood memories were of hills like rippled green silk, stretching away to the horizon on all sides. The land endured the droughts and the cold, but it would be reborn.

  In the distance, she could see the mountain of Deli'un-Boldakh, a peak of almost mystical significance in the legends of the tribes. Genghis had been born somewhere near that place. His father Yesugei had ridden with his bondsmen there, protecting his herds from raiders through the coldest months.

  Sorhatani kept her eyes on a different crag, the red rock that Genghis had climbed with his brothers when the world was smaller and all the tribes were at each other's throats. Her three sons kept pace with her and the red hill grew before them. There, Genghis and Kachiun had found an eagle's nest and brought down two perfect chicks to show their father. Sorhatani could imagine their excitement, even see their faces in the features of her own sons.

  She only wished Mongke could have been there, though she knew that was a mother's foolishness. Mongke had to learn to lead, to campaign with his father and uncles. The warriors would not respect an officer who knew nothing about terrain or tactics.

  She wondered if Genghis' mother had loved Bekter as she loved her own first born. As the legends told it, Bekter had been solemn in spirit, just as Mongke was. Her eldest son was not easily given to laughter, or the lightning flashes of insight and humour that characterised a boy like Kublai.

  She watched Kublai ride, his Chin tail of hair whipping in the wind. He was slim and wiry like his father and grandfather. Her boys raced each other through the dust and she gloried in their youth and strength as well as her own.

  Tolui and Mongke had been gone for many months. It had been hard for her to leave Karakorum, but she knew she had to prepare a camp for her husband, to scout the land. It was her task to raise gers in the shadow of Deli'un-Boldakh and find good grazing on the river plains. Thousands of men and women had come with her to the homeland, but for the moment they would wait on her pleasure while she rode to the red hill.

  Perhaps one day Mongke would command an army like Tsubodai, or become a man of power under his uncle Chagatai. It was easy to dream on such a day, wi
th the wind making her hair flow back in a river of silk threads.

  Sorhatani glanced behind her, checking on the presence of her husband's bondsmen. Two of the most ferocious warriors at his command rode within easy reach of the family. As she watched them, she saw their heads turning to the left and right, looking for the slightest danger. She smiled. Before he left, Tolui had given very clear orders about keeping his wife and sons safe. It might have been true that the hills and steppes of their homeland were practically empty of nomadic families, but still he worried. He was a fine man, she thought. With just a fraction of his father's ambition, he would have risen far. Sorhatani's mood did not sink at the thought. The destiny of her husband had never been hers to shape. He had always been the youngest son of Genghis and from the earliest age he had known his brothers would lead and he would follow.

  Her sons were a different matter. Even her youngest, Arik-Boke, had been trained as a warrior and a scholar from the moment he could walk. All could read and write the court script of the Chin. Though she prayed to Christ and his mother, they had been taught the religion of the Chin and Sung, where true power lay. Whatever the future held, she knew she had prepared them as best she could.

  The small group dismounted at the foot of the red hill and Sorhatani cried out in pleasure as she saw the circling specks of eagles high above. Part of her had thought the rumour of their presence was just a herdsman's boasting, a way of honouring the story of Genghis. Yet they were there and their nest would be somewhere in the crags.

  Her husband's bondsmen came up and bowed deeply before her, waiting patiently for her orders.

  'My sons are going to climb for the nest,' she said, as excited as a girl. She did not need to explain. Both of the warriors had squinted up at the circling birds. 'Scout the area for water, but do not go too far.'

  In moments, the men had leapt back into the saddle and were cantering away. They had learned that Sorhatani expected the same sort of instant obedience as her husband. She had grown up around men of power and had married into the great khan's family at a very young age. She knew that men prefer to follow, that it takes an effort of will to lead. She had that will.

  Kublai and Hulegu were already at the base of the red hill, shading their eyes against the sun for the location of the nest. It was later in the year than the ideal. If there were chicks there, they would already be strong, perhaps even able to leave the nest and fly on their own. Sorhatani did not know if her sons would be disappointed, but it did not matter. She had made them part of a tale from Genghis' life and they would never forget the climb, whether they brought down a chick or not. She had given them a memory they would tell to their own children one day.

  The boys removed their weapons and began to scramble up the easy section as Sorhatani pulled a bag of soft curds from under her saddle. She had hammered the chips of hard cheese herself, breaking them small enough so that they would not gall the mare's skin as they softened in water. The thick yellow paste was bitter and refreshing, a particular favourite of hers. She licked her lips as she dipped her hand inside, then sucked her fingers clean.

  It did not take long to fetch water from the packhorses and water the animals with a leather bucket. When the chore was done, Sorhatani rummaged further in her saddlebags until she found some sweet dried dates. She looked guiltily at the hill as she nibbled one, knowing that her sons loved the rare delicacy. Still, they were not there. She could see them rising higher, climbing easily on strong, thin legs. It would be sunset by the time they returned and for once she was on her own. She hobbled the pony with a length of rope so it would not wander far, then sat on the dry grass, spreading a saddle blanket for herself.

  Sorhatani dozed through the afternoon, enjoying the peaceful solitude. At times, she took up a deel robe she was embroidering in gold thread for Kublai. It would be very fine when it was finished and she worked with bowed head over the stitches, cutting lengths of thread with strong, white teeth. In the sun's warmth, it was easy to nod over the cloth and she dozed for a time. When she came awake again, it was to find the afternoon had faded to coolness. She rose and stretched, yawning. This was a good land and she felt at home here. She had dreamed of Genghis as a young man and her face was flushed with perspiration. It had not been a dream to share with her sons.

  In the distance, the movement of a rider caught her eye. It was an instinctive talent, born of generations for whom spotting an enemy was the key to survival. She frowned and shaded her eyes, then made her hands into a tube to focus her sight further. Even with the old scout's trick, the dark figure was just a speck.

  Her husband's bondsmen had not slept in the afternoon and already they were galloping to intercept the lone rider. Sorhatani felt her sense of peace dwindle and fade as they reached the man and the single point became a larger knot.

  'Who are you?' she muttered to herself.

  It was hard not to feel a twinge of worry. A single rider could only be one of the yam messengers who criss-crossed thousands of miles for the khan and his generals. With fresh horses, they could ride a hundred miles in a day, sometimes even further if it was a matter of life and death. The khan's forces in Chin territory were only ten days away by the reckoning of such men. She saw the three riders begin to approach the red hill together and her womb clenched in sudden premonition.

  Behind her, she heard the sound of her sons back from their climb. Their voices were light and cheerful, but there were no calls of triumph. The fledgling eagles had left the nest, or flown from their grasping hands. Sorhatani began to pack away her supplies, folding her precious needles and spools of thread back into their roll and tying the knots with unconscious expertise. She did it rather than stand helplessly waiting and she took her time with the saddlebags, stowing the waterskins carefully.

  When she turned back, her hand flew to her mouth as she recognised the lone rider flanked by the bondsmen. They were still some way off and she almost cried out to them to go faster. As they drew nearer, she saw how Mongke swayed in the saddle, close to utter exhaustion.

  He was coated in dust and the sides of his horse heaved with caked muck from where he had emptied his bladder without dismounting. She knew the scouts did that only when the news had to be brought home with all speed and her heart skipped with dread. She did not speak as her eldest son dismounted and staggered, almost falling as his legs betrayed him. He clung to the saddle horn, using his strong right hand to rub out the cramps. At last their eyes met and he did not have to speak.

  Sorhatani did not weep then. Though some part of her knew her husband was gone, she stood tall, her mind racing. There were so many things she had to do.

  'You are welcome in my camp, my son,' she said at last.

  Almost in a trance, she turned to the bondsmen and told them to make a fire and salt tea. Her other sons stood in silent confusion at the sight of the small group.

  'Sit with me, Mongke,' she said softly.

  Her son nodded, his eyes red-rimmed with weariness and grief. He took his place on the grass beside her and nodded to Kublai, Hulegu and Arik-Boke as they made a tight circle around their mother. When the salt tea was ready, Mongke drained the first bowl in a few gulps to cut the dust in his throat. The words still had to be spoken. Sorhatani almost cried out to stop him, her emotions in turmoil. If Mongke did not speak, it would not be completely true. Once the words were out, her life, her son's lives, would all change and she would have lost her beloved.

  'My father is dead,' Mongke said.

  His mother closed her eyes for a moment. Her last hope was torn away. She took a long breath.

  'He was a good husband,' she whispered, choking. 'He was a warrior who commanded ten thousand for the khan. I loved him more than you will ever know.' Tears made her eyes large and her voice roughened as her throat closed on grief. 'Tell me how it happened, Mongke. Leave nothing out.'

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Tsubodai reined in at the edge of a cliff, leaning out of his saddle to peer down on the valley
below. It had taken him a day of following goat trails to reach the place, but from such a height he could see for twenty miles, his gaze encompassing hills and villages, rivers and towns. The wide Volga river ran to the west, but it was not a serious obstacle. He had already sent men wading across its sandbars to scout islands and the banks beyond. He had raided these lands years before. He smiled as he remembered taking his men across the frozen rivers. The Russians had not believed anyone could withstand their winter. They had been mistaken. Only Genghis could have called him back then. When the great khan had ordered him home, Tsubodai had returned, but it would not happen again. Ogedai had given him a free hand. The Chin borders were secure to the east. If he could crush the lands of the west, the nation would hold the central plains from sea to sea, an empire so vast it beggared the imagination. Tsubodai hungered to see the lands beyond the Russian forests, all the way to the legendary cold seas and the ghostly white peoples there who never saw the sun.

  With such a view, it was easy to imagine the threads of his influence stretching back to him. Tsubodai stood at the centre of a web of messengers and spies. For hundreds of miles around the spot where he stood, he had men and women in every market, village, town and fortress. Some of them had no idea the coins they were paid came from the Mongol armies. A few of his scouts and informants were from the Turkic tribes, who lacked the eye-folds that marked his warriors. Others came from those Tsubodai and Batu had already recruited or taken by force. They staggered out of the ashes of every town, homeless and desperate, ready to accept whatever their conquerors asked in exchange for their lives. The khan's silver flowed like a river through Tsubodai's hands and he bought information as much as meat and salt – and valued it more.