by Ted Stewart
As stability took hold, a sense of security began to permeate much of Europe. With this increase of security, and the confidence that it engendered, the people forged the courage to demand certain rights. And for the first time, the idea that the people might actually have some rights was not discarded out of hand. In 1215, the Magna Carta, a magnificent document that was forced upon King John of England, established the relative rights of the church and the barons against those of the king. Though the English monarch was to remain a very powerful man for many centuries, the Magna Carta provided the foundation for the development of constitutional law and individual rights.
The Age of Reason was coming. The political philosophy that embraced a love of freedom, self-government, equality, and the rule of law—which distinguished the West from the rest of the world in a profound way—was in its infancy. But it was alive. And it was growing.
It was a remarkable time!
Another well-respected historian described the importance of this era:
The economic revolution of the thirteenth century was the making of modern Europe. It eventually destroyed a feudalism that had completed the function of agricultural protection and organization. . . . It transformed the immobile wealth of feudalism into the fluent resources of a world-wide economy. It provided the machinery for a progressive development of business and industry, which substantially increased the power, comforts, and knowledge of European man. It brought a prosperity that in two centuries could build a hundred cathedrals. . . . Its production for an extending market made possible the national economic systems that underlay the growth of the modern states. Even the class war that it let loose may have been an added stimulant to the minds and energies of men. When the storm of the transition had subsided, the economic and political structure of Europe had been transformed. A flowing tide of industry and commerce washed away deep-rooted impediments to human development, and carried men onward from the scattered glory of the cathedrals to the universal frenzy of the Renaissance.7
But what if this pivotal century had not been allowed to play out as it did?
What if the European cities had been destroyed, the Church crippled, the population decimated?
What if those ideas and values that would have such a powerfully positive influence upon the world over the next seven hundred years had been eliminated?
What if Europe had fallen victim to the most murderous and violent band of invaders the world had ever seen?
Genghis Khan and His Mongol Hordes
The Mongols were not strangers to Europe.
Their distant cousins, the Huns, contributed to the decline of the Roman Empire when they invaded in the fourth and fifth centuries. These were followed by other cousins, the Magyars, who overran major portions of Europe in 889. By 975, all of these invaders had accepted Christianity and made their home in Hungary.8
But the Mongols of the late twelfth and early thirteenth centuries were a very different breed of barbarian from their earlier cousins. Much more aggressive. Much more focused. Much more protective of their own. They were bloodthirsty soldiers who fed on war and conquests.
And they were incredibly successful. Undistracted by the niceties of empire building, they could focus on one thing and one thing only: invasion, with its subsequent subjugation.
As author Jack Weatherford has pointed out:
In twenty-five years, the Mongol army subjugated more lands and people than the Romans had conquered in four hundred years. Genghis Khan, together with his sons and grandsons, conquered the most densely populated civilizations of the thirteenth century. . . . Genghis Khan conquered more than twice as much as any other man in history. . . . The empire covered between 11 and 12 million contiguous square miles, an area . . . considerably larger than North America. . . . It stretched from the snowy tundra of Siberia to the hot plains of India, from the rice paddies of Vietnam to the wheat fields of Hungary, and from Korea to the Balkans. . . . The most astonishing aspect . . . is that . . . his army . . . was comprised of no more than one hundred thousand warriors—a group that could comfortably fit into the larger sports stadiums of the modern era.9
To understand the Mongols, we must understand their founder, the infamous Genghis Khan.
Genghis Khan was born on the steppes of Mongolia in 1162. His Mongol tribe were nomads who made their livelihood hunting, herding, trading, and raiding their neighbors. His given name was Temujin, the name of a warrior his father had killed shortly before his birth. Along the steppes of Mongolia, intertribal war was constant. It seemed to be the nature of the people, having been bred into them over a millennium of fighting to survive. Because of this, Temujin was reared in a brutal environment where pillaging, kidnapping, rape, and quick and cruel death were nothing but a way of life.
His father died when Temujin was a teenager. When his older half brother attempted to take over the role as head of the household, Temujin rebelled and killed him. For this, his tribe enslaved him, but it wasn’t long until Temujin escaped.
At some point in his young life, Temujin decided that it was his fate to unite all of the Mongol tribes into one. Gathering a small clan around him, he began to war upon the nearby clans.
From the beginning, Temujin proved to be a brilliant leader. He approached clan leadership in a new way, instituting radical and innovative practices that would serve him well.
For one thing, ignoring all custom and tradition, Temujin did not rely on family or tribe in deciding who would rule with him. No more taking care of brothers, cousins, or closest friends. Merit and merit alone would determine who would rule.
Also, contrary to former practices of the steppe, Temujin instituted a policy wherein members of a defeated tribe were allowed to become full members of his clan. Instead of dispersing or enslaving conquered tribes, he used them to enhance and grow his own horde. Even more daring, he started integrating members of the conquered tribes into his military. To be accepted into his army, all one had to do was pledge loyalty to him.
No more did he raise his own tribe above the others. Instead, he abolished any distinctions between tribes, clans, and families. He ended the caste system whereby some were deemed to come from better or richer or more handsome tribes than others. Many different religions could be found among the tribes of the steppe, including shamanists (who worshipped the sky and mountains), Christians, Muslims, and Buddhists. All were accepted into his new society.
But the relative equality with which he governed his own people did not mean that Temujin was a good or compassionate man. Quite the opposite—he was as brutal and merciless as any man who had ever lived.
Early on, he adopted the policy that anyone who dared oppose him was doomed to an immediate and violent death. He showed absolutely no mercy to any leader who refused to kneel before his sword.
The first Mongol tribe he triumphed over was the Jurkins. After Temujin’s quick victory, the members of the Jurkin clan were dispersed among his tribe. (He even took a Jurkin orphan into his family, tasking his mother to raise him.) The leaders of the Jurkin clan, however, were viciously murdered. As an example of his brutality, one leader who had insulted Genghis’s younger brother had his spinal cord snapped and then was dragged a short distance from the camp, where he died a slow and excruciating death.
This was not the last time that such a cruel method for killing an enemy would be used:
Temujin had rid himself of all the leaders of the Jurkin. The messages were clear to all their related clans on the steppe. To those who followed Temujin faithfully, there would be rewards and good treatment. To those who chose to attack him, he would show no mercy.10
• • •
In 1205, when he was forty-three years old, Temujin completed his conquest of the last of the steppe tribes, becoming the absolute ruler of all of Mongolia. His new kingdom was roughly the size of Western Europe and had a population of a
bout a million people. Naming his united country The Great Mongol Nation, he took upon himself the title of Genghis Khan.
Just as he had instituted radical practices in the development of his clan and army, he also brought new thinking to the management of his kingdom, putting into operation a series of laws that reordered his new society in ways large and small—for example, ending kidnapping, outlawing adultery, and setting rules for hunting rights.
One of the most important steps he took was the initiation of the ceremonial khuriltai, essentially a primitive method of popular election. A tribal council would be called regarding any critical piece of business before the nation: future military campaigns, leadership positions, titles, military strategies, and the like. Because of the important nature of these decisions, a khuriltai required the presence of all senior tribal and military leaders. Once the khuriltai had been called, the Mongol nation had the opportunity, essentially, to vote by either showing up, which evidenced a vote for the decision of the council, or not showing up, which meant the vote was “no.”
Most important, a khuriltai was essential to choose a new khan, or national leader. Indeed, that fact would prove, as the world would see some forty years later, to be one of those seemingly small but critical tipping points that would change the future.
The Invasion of China
With the steppe under his dominion, and as the ruler of a nation of natural-born warriors, Genghis Khan now faced a new problem. How could he satisfy the bloodlust of his people? Fulfill their ache for plunder? Keep his army satisfied?
For many years, the Mongols had looked longingly upon the riches of the nation to their south. In that day, they called it Cathay. Today we call it China.
In 1211, following a khuriltai, the Mongols decided to invade.
After this in the Year of the Sheep
Chingis Khan set out to fight the people of Cathay. . . .
killing the finest and most courageous soldiers of Cathay, . . .
slaughtering them along the sides of Chu-yung Kuan
so that their bodies lay piled up like rotting trees.11
The leaders of Cathay did not take the invasion seriously. They were, after all, the masters of a highly advanced and powerful civilization with fifty million people. What risk could a group of illiterate barbarians with only one million people and a small army pose to them?
They learned, to their great regret, that they posed a fatal risk.
Relying on military tactics that fit his soldiers’ strength, Genghis Khan swept south, his soldiers carrying only what they needed and no more. Because his army had no infantry, only cavalry, and no supply trains to slow their advancement or maneuvering, they moved with frightening speed. As they moved, they lived off of hunting, looting, and the animals that accompanied them. Not only did they move fast, but they moved far, covering long distances in very short periods of time. To keep their means of mobility fresh, each warrior herded four or five spare horses with him. And, unlike conventional armies of the time, the Mongols fought over a broad front, attacking many targets simultaneously, instilling fear and confusion across the battlefield.
It would have been easy to assume the barbarians were simpleminded soldiers. Such was not the case. Genghis Khan honed trickery and deception to perfection. He used sophisticated means of propaganda to frighten the populace and opposing armies. He exploited ancient rivalries and social strife within the peoples the Mongols were invading, exemplifying the notion of “divide and conquer.”
Because he had no experience with such obstacles, his first encounters with walled cities did not go well. However, he quickly learned that the loyalty of Chinese engineers could be purchased. Once he had access to their expertise, he built catapults and siege machines. With each new campaign, the Mongols improved this equipment until the machines became some of the most effective weapons within their army.
Genghis Khan’s view of the relative value of the enemy versus a brother’s life was not entirely unconventional, but he did seem to take it to a more precise level. In his evaluation, there was no ambiguity or middle ground. The life of a Mongol was precious beyond measure. Every fellow soldier’s life was indispensable and never should be wasted.
Genghis Khan would never willingly sacrifice a single one. . . . On and off the battlefield, the Mongol warrior was forbidden to speak of death, injury, or defeat. Just to think of it might make it happen. Even mentioning the name of a fallen comrade or other dead warrior constituted a serious taboo. Every Mongol soldier had to live his life as a warrior with the assumption that he was immortal, that no one could defeat him or harm him, that nothing could kill him.12
The value placed upon the life of a Mongol warrior was signified by the fact that whenever possible, regardless of the distance or the hardship that it might cause, the body of a fallen soldier was sent back to Mongolia for burial.
On the other hand, their enemies were nothing. Be they civilians, warriors, women, or children, the lives of the Mongols’ enemies were worth less than that of a dog. Indeed, the only value that enemy lives represented was in the various ways in which they could be used to protect a Mongol soldier or aid the invading horde.
For example, the Mongols had learned early on that they could use the vast numbers of animals found in the steppes for military purposes, herding them in advance of their army to bring confusion and disorder to the defenders. Genghis Khan quickly realized that he could use enemy peasant populations to the same effect. After he had burned their villages, the peasants would be herded ahead of his army to cause confusion and to freeze the enemy forces. Other times, they were herded into the walled cities to eat the food, drink the water, spread disease, and incite rebellion.
But that wasn’t the only way that Genghis Khan used enemy civilians to his advantage. Why build a bridge when the bodies of the peasant masses were perfect for filling moats? Why build an earthen embankment when the dead bodies of the enemy could be piled on top of each other and used as stepping-stones to reach above a city wall? After all, enemies weren’t human beings, only tools: bodies to be used, herded, manipulated, piled, stacked, or killed for sport.
Is it any surprise that, with such a swift, frightening, and brutal army, Genghis Khan found great success?
Four years after Genghis Khan initiated his invasion of Cathay, the nation was defeated. Zhongdu, the capital city (modern-day Beijing), had been conquered, looted, and burned. Incredible amounts of plunder had been captured and sent back home. Slaves were taken in great numbers, especially from among the craftsmen and professional classes. The population had been terrorized and subjugated. To assure that the peasant population would never return, and to guarantee adequate pastures for his future armies, his men destroyed the farmland, walls, and irrigation ditches of the countryside.
After completing their pillage, his victorious soldiers turned their horses and headed for their homeland. They left behind a decimated vassal state with an obligation to pay tribute. Riding north, they carried with them the wealth and prestige of one of the greatest nations in the world.
Gurganj (Capital City of the Kingdom of Khwarizm) Central Asia AD 1221
The soldiers were exhausted, hungry, bloodied, and nearly delirious with rage.
They had been fighting for weeks now, trapped inside their city. Every passing day did nothing but leave them more famished, more sick, and more hopeless. Their water, what little they could steal at night—it was a terrible error not to have extended the canals through the outer walls—had been poisoned with dead bodies and raw sewage. A rotting corpse, infected with some kind of plague, had been catapulted into the city to spread disease and fear. Every night, fire rained down on the city from the Mongol catapults. Every day brought rocks and boulders.
And these were just a few manifestations of the brutality that lay outside the city walls. This was a new enemy. A new terror. Somethin
g they never had seen before. They were completely unprepared to fight them.
Soon, they were going to fall.
Al-Marwazi remembered what it was like to watch the Mongols sweep toward the city. He thought of the children herded before the army, some of them tied to the front of the soldiers’ saddles, anything to protect the warriors from the incoming arrows. Thinking back on it, he realized that strategy had done much more than protect the enemy. It had caused so much confusion and hesitation—were their archers really supposed to release their arrows?—that the Mongols had been able to ride close enough to mount a devastating attack, getting almost to the gates before being pushed back.
The initial assault had lasted most of the day. Then, just as the sun was setting on the city, the attackers had pulled back. As they set up camp, Al-Marwazi was astounded to see how many of the riders carefully slit veins in the necks of their horses to drink their blood, seemingly all the nourishment they needed for another day of war.
Since that time, the city had been assaulted every night and every day. Fire. Rocks and boulders. An occasional head or corpse thrown in. The city was running out of food now, and casualties were mounting. The women and children spent their days in hunger, their nights huddled in the center of the larger buildings.
Earlier that morning, they had received a depressing report from one of their spies. The Chinese engineers had finished assembling the battering rams that would destroy their city gates.
The end was near now. Everyone knew it. Al-Marwazi. His people. The Mongols. Everyone knew the city was on the brink of destruction. The sultan had tried to negotiate release of the women and children (as well as himself), but it was far too late for that; once an attack had been initiated, the Mongols would never show any mercy.
Al-Marwazi hunched wearily behind the cold rock wall. It was growing dark and he was so tired that he simply couldn’t stand. He was old. He was exhausted. He had almost reached the point that he didn’t care anymore. He hadn’t eaten in three days, and the water was so putrid that even when he forced himself to drink it, he couldn’t keep it down. He felt a soft breeze blow in from the prairie. As he sniffed, his stomach retched from the sickening smell of the rotting corpses piling up outside the city wall.