Conqueror (2011)

by Conn Iggulden

  Karakorum was full of warriors, the plains before the city once again filled with tumans and every room in the city housing at least a family. Two hundred thousand of them had come home and the land was hunted out for a hundred miles around the city. In the cramped camps, the talk was often of Xanadu in the east, apparently crying out for citizens.

  Arik-Boke stood in the deepest basements of the palace, with all life and movement far above his head. It was cold in that place and he shivered, rubbing at bumps on his arms. His brother’s body lay there and Arik-Boke could not look away. Traditionalist to the end, Mongke had left instructions for his death, that he should be taken to the same mountain as his grandfather and buried with him. When he was ready, Arik-Boke would take him there himself. The homeland would swallow his brother into the earth.

  The corpse had been wrapped and the terrible white-lipped gash across the throat had been sewn shut. Even so, it made Arik-Boke shudder to be alone in the dimly lit room with a pale mockery of the brother he had known and loved. Mongke had trusted him to rule Karakorum in his absence. He had given him the ancestral homeland as his own. Mongke had understood that blood and brotherhood was a force too strong to break, even in death.

  ‘I have done what you wanted, my brother,’ Arik-Boke told the body. ‘You trusted me with your capital and I have not let you down. Hulegu is on his way, to honour you and everything you did for us.’

  Arik-Boke did not weep. He knew Mongke would have scorned the idea of red-eyed brothers growing maudlin. He intended to drink himself unconscious, to walk among the warriors as they did the same, to sing and be sick and drink again. Perhaps then he would shed tears without shame.

  ‘Kublai will be home soon, brother,’ Arik-Boke said. He sighed to himself. He would have to go back to the funeral feast above soon enough. He had just wanted to say a few words to his brother. It was almost as hard as if Mongke had been there alive and listening.

  ‘I wish I had been there when our father gave his life for Ogedai Khan. I wish I could have given my life to save you. That would have been my purpose in the world. I would have done it, Mongke, I swear it.’

  He became aware of the echo in the basements and Arik-Boke reached out and took Mongke’s hand, surprised at the weight of it.

  ‘Goodbye, my brother. I will try to be the man you wanted. I can do that much for your memory.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Before the sun rose, before even the grey light that heralded the dawn, both camps began to wake and get ready. Tea was brewed in ten thousand pots and a solid meal eaten. Men emptied their bladders, often more than once as internal muscles tightened with nerves. On the Sung side, the cannon teams looked over their precious weapons for the thousandth time, rubbing down the polished shot balls and checking that the powder bags had not grown damp and useless.

  When the pale light known as the wolf dawn came, both armies could see each other. The Mongols were already mounted, forming up into minghaans of a thousand that would act independently in the battle to come. Men eased tight backs as they rode up and down the lines. Many of them tested the strings on their bows by pulling back without a shaft, loosening the heavy muscles of their shoulders.

  Some things had to wait for light, but as soon as he could tell a white thread from a black one, Lord Jin An had the cannon teams pulled into position on the front rank. Others went to the sides, where they would present their black mouths to any flanking attack. He could see Mongol officers staring over at his regiments, noting their positions and pointing out features of the formation to others like them. Lord Jin An smiled. No matter how brave or how fast the Mongols were, they would have to ride through roaring shot to reach his ranks. He had learned from the defeats of other men. He tried to put himself in the Mongols’ position, to see how they might counter such a display of force, but he could not. They were lice-ridden tribesmen, while he was of the noble class of an ancient empire.

  The Sung regiments formed up behind the lines of cannon. Lord Jin An sat his horse and watched as his subordinates assembled the gun soldiers in the first ranks back. Their heavy hand-cannon were slow to reload and notoriously inaccurate, but they would hardly be able to miss as they poured fire alongside the cannon. When the shot and powder was all spent, his cavalry ranks could ride out. Deeper still behind the guns, swordsmen waited in their lacquered armour of iron and wood, standing in disciplined silence. Lord Jin An had placed the Chin contingent there, behind the protection of his guns.

  He liked the man who had once been an emperor. Lord Jin An had expected Xuan to be one of those obsessed with his status, having lost so much of it. Yet Xuan reminded the Sung lord of his own father, dead for almost a decade. He had found the same world-weariness in both men, tempered with a dry humour and the sense that they had seen more than they cared to remember. Lord Jin An did not think the Chin soldiers would run, but at the same time, he dared not trust his strategy to such elderly men. They were keen enough at dawn, but if the fighting went on all day, they would not be able to keep up with those half their age. Lord Jin An made a mental note to keep an eye on them through the fighting, to be sure a weakness in the lines did not develop.

  The sun seemed to take for ever to creep above the eastern horizon. Jin An imagined it showing its face to the citizens of Hangzhou and to the lords who still disdained the threat to their culture and the emperor. They were fools. Before it set, he hoped to have broken the foreign army that had dared to enter Sung lands. With such a victory behind him, a man might rise far indeed. It was just one day, he told himself, feeling sweat break out on his skin. Just one, long day.

  Kublai sat his horse, with Bayar and Uriang-Khadai on either side of him. The other officers had formed the tumans, though they remained ready for any orders from the three men watching the Sung positions.

  ‘I do not understand how imperial Chin banners can be flying there,’ Kublai said, frowning into the distance. ‘Is it mockery to present the colours of men we have defeated? If so, they are fools. We beat the Chin. They hold no fear for us.’

  ‘My lord, it is more important that the cannon ranks reduce their ability to manoeuvre,’ Uriang-Khadai said. He was flushed with a slow-burning indignation over Kublai’s refusal to listen to any idea of a retreat. In his frustration, he became ever more stilted in his manner, his tone lecturing. ‘They put too much faith in the heavy weapons, my lord, but we can still move. With respect, I must point out that I have been against engaging them from the beginning. This formation only reinforces my view. Why commit suicide against their guns?’

  It irritated Kublai that Uriang-Khadai was so obviously right. Before hearing the news of his brother’s death, he knew he would have ridden round the Sung regiments, forcing them to come after him and leave their guns behind, or make such slow progress with them that they would never catch up. He could then choose the best ground to attack.

  It was the merest common sense not to let an enemy have his main advantage. All Kublai’s cannon, both captured and brought from home, lay rusting on fields hundreds of miles away. The weapons were terrifyingly powerful in the right place and time, but until someone found a way to move them quickly, they were more often a hindrance to fast-moving cavalry. The Sung commander did not seem to understand that, at all.

  Yet under the stillness, Kublai felt a part of him clamouring and clawing its way out. It was red-mouthed in savagery, demanding that he attack just where the enemy were strong. He wanted to take all the grief and pain of his brother’s death and dash it out against those iron guns. He wanted to show Mongke that he had courage, whether his brother’s spirit knew it or not.

  ‘Sun Tzu said there are seven conditions for victory,’ Kublai said. ‘Shall I list them for you?’

  ‘Sun Tzu never saw gunpowder used in war, my lord,’ Uriang-Khadai said stubbornly.

  ‘One. Which of the two sovereigns is imbued with Moral Law? Who is in the right, orlok? It matters to the men. The Sung are defending their lands, so perhaps they must
take that first point. Yet I am the grandson of Genghis Khan and all lands are mine.’

  Uriang-Khadai stared at him in worried silence. He had never seen Kublai so intensely focused. The scholar had been burnt out of him and Uriang-Khadai feared the effects of his grief.

  ‘Two. Which of the generals has most ability? I give you that one, Uriang-Khadai, and you also, Bayar. These Sung have made a house that cannot move, with walls of guns. Three. With whom lie the advantages of Heaven and Earth? I call that equal, as the land is flat and the skies are clear.’

  ‘My lord …’ Uriang-Khadai tried to interrupt.

  ‘Four. On which side is discipline most rigorously enforced? That would be ours, orlok, men who live hard lives from birth, men who endure. They have not grown soft in Sung cities. Five. Which army is stronger? In numbers, perhaps the Sung, but we have beaten their armies before. I will have that one, I think.’

  ‘Six. On which side are the officers and men more highly trained? That is ours. Every man here has fought and won many times. We are veteran soldiers, Uriang-Khadai. We are the elite tumans of the nation. The Sung have had peace for too long.’ He paused. ‘The last is a strange one. Which army is most constant in reward and punishment? Sun Tzu valued good leadership, I think, if I have understood it correctly. Without knowing the Sung, I cannot be certain, so I will call that one equal. The balance is with us, orlok.’

  ‘My lord, the guns …’

  ‘The guns must be swabbed down between shots,’ Kublai snapped. ‘The barrels must be cleaned of burning scraps of cloth or embers. A new powder bag must be jammed down and carefully pierced by a hollow reed filled with black powder. The ball must be lifted into the barrel and shoved down. It all takes time, orlok, and we will not give them time. They will have one shot and then we will be in range to kill the cannon teams. We can face one shot.’

  He had been staring out to the Sung regiment waiting for them, but he turned to face Uriang-Khadai, his yellow eyes blazing.

  ‘Should I treat them with respect, these Sung men who know nothing of war? Should I fear their weapons, their black powder? I do not, orlok. I will not.’

  ‘My lord, please reconsider. Let them stand and run dry for a few days without water. Let them grow hungry while we forage the land and remain strong. They cannot remain for ever in one place, leaving us to ride unchecked around them. Let me burn the closest towns to us and they will be forced to answer, to come out.’

  ‘And by then, there will be another Sung army on its way to support them,’ Kublai said bitterly. ‘Have you not learned yet that there is no end to these people? Today, I think I will answer their arrogance with arrogance of my own. I will ride down the mouths of their guns.’

  Uriang-Khadai was horror-struck.

  ‘My lord, you must stay clear of the battle. The men look to you. If you are killed …’

  ‘Then I will be killed. I have made my decision, orlok. Stand with me, or join the ranks under the orders of others.’

  Uriang-Khadai slowly bowed his head, understanding at last that he would not move the younger man from his choice. He looked again at the Sung guns, in the new light of knowing he would ride into them.

  ‘Then, my lord, I suggest wide-spaced ranks as we go in, coming back after the first shot for massed arrow volleys and a lance charge. If I may, my lord, I would also hold back two groups of five hundred heavily armoured riders to strike as gaps appear in their lines.’

  Kublai grinned suddenly.

  ‘You are an interesting man, Orlok Uriang-Khadai. I hope you live through today.’

  Uriang-Khadai grimaced.

  ‘As do I, my lord. With your permission, I will pass on those orders to the minghaans, telling them to target the cannon teams first.’ When Kublai nodded, he went on. ‘The Sung have not placed as many cannon at their rear, my lord. General Bayar is reasonably competent. He should swing out with a tuman and attack them from behind.’

  Bayar chuckled at the grudging description of him.

  ‘Very well,’ Kublai replied. He felt lighter now he had made the decision. It was done. He would ride against the guns with his men, the bones of his fate tossed high into the air.

  Uriang-Khadai passed on the new orders to the minghaan officers. Through them, the news reached the jagun commanders of a hundred and the most junior officers in charge of just ten men. The sun had hardly moved before every warrior there understood what Kublai intended them to do. He made no speeches to them. Even if he had, only a small number would have heard the words. Though he watched them, they seemed unsurprised by the orders and simply readied themselves, checking their mounts and weapons one last time. Kublai sent a silent prayer to his brother’s spirit. Men would die that day who might have lived if he had made different choices.

  He stopped, the moment stretching in his head. It felt as if a veil had lifted, as if the sun shone through his grief for the first time. He could almost hear Mongke’s voice speaking in anger or mockery. For just an instant, it was as if his brother was standing behind him. Kublai dug in his heels and rode to where Uriang-Khadai and Bayar were discussing the battle plan with a group of other men. Kublai did not dismount.

  ‘I have new orders, Orlok Uriang-Khadai. We will ride round this army and head for Hangzhou. If the enemy leave their guns to chase, we will turn and tear them to pieces. If they bring them, we will attack while the cannon are still attached to oxen.’

  ‘Thank God,’ Uriang-Khadai said.

  The men around him were grinning and Kublai could suddenly see how much strain they had been under before. Yet they had not baulked at what he had asked of them. His heart filled with pride.

  ‘We are the tumans of Mongke Khan,’ Kublai said. ‘We move, we strike and we move on again. Mount up. Let us leave these Sung fools behind.’

  There was laughter in the ranks as the news spread and Kublai’s words were repeated hundreds of times. The tumans surged forward into a trot and the Sung regiments less than a mile away watched in confusion as they swung clear of the battlefield, leaving only dust, manure and cropped grass in their wake.

  General Salsanan had not expected it to be such a task when he volunteered to leave the khan’s tumans and come south. Though he did not know exactly where Kublai was, he expected to track him down by following a trail of burnt towns and cities. Instead, the Sung countryside seemed hardly to have been affected by the passage of armies. It was true that there were few animals grazing and the peasants ran to hide from his soldiers as they searched for anything they could eat. Even so, it was a far cry from the trail of devastation he had thought to see.

  His eighty thousand had not even brought the usual supplies. Each man had only two spare mounts, and as they pushed on, Salsanan’s tumans lost a few ponies each day to lameness. Unable to keep up, the mounts were quickly butchered, providing enough meat to give two hundred men a hot meal. The tumans left only bones and often split those for the rich marrow before moving on.

  After a month of searching, Salsanan would spend much of each day wishing Mongke Khan was still alive. The land was wide and the endless stream of small towns tempted him to stop and loot. Only his sense of duty kept him going. His men were disciplined, but he was beginning to wonder where Kublai had gone. It seemed impossible to lose a hundred thousand men, even in the vastness of Sung territories. He questioned every village leader and town official who trembled before him, but it was not until he reached the city of Shaoyang that the prefect gave him a solid lead. As he rode, Salsanan reminded himself that the man he went to fetch home could be the next khan. He would have to tread carefully with the scholar prince.

  On the road east, Salsanan’s scouts had him riding up ahead of the tumans to confirm the strange sight they reported. Hundreds of heavy cannon lay overturned in the road, their draught animals slaughtered. The carcases had been expertly butchered, with most of the meat taken. In many cases, flies swarmed over just a head and hooves and bloody ground. There were dead men with them, unarmed peasants with
dead hands still clutching at whips and reins. Salsanan smiled to see it, recognising the work of his own people.

  Just a few miles further on, he found the first remnants of a shattered army, bodies lying in the dusty road. Over the crest of a hill, the corpses grew thicker, as if a stand had been made on that spot. Salsanan walked his mount slowly through them, then reined in as the full battle site was revealed. Dead men lay everywhere, scattered in heaps like shrivelled insects.

  Salsanan saw distant figures walking amongst the dead, stopping and staring in terror as his warriors came into sight. He knew some men always survive a battle. In the chaos of fighting, they are knocked unconscious, or pass out from a wound. There will always be a few to rise the following day, limping home while armies and the war move on without them. As he rode further through the field of the dead, Salsanan watched battered Sung survivors raise their hands, their faces slack as his men began to round them up.

  He nodded in fascination as he read the battle that had taken place. It had been hard. There were many Mongol bodies and he could discern the pattern of their charges in the corpses and broken lances. Kublai’s tumans had been beaten back more than once, he could see, perhaps almost flanked. The Sung commander had known their tactics and answered them without panic.

  Salsanan picked up a broken arrow and scratched his head with the tip. He would speak to the bruised and battered survivors, but first he walked the field, learning from the bloody script the sort of man who might one day rule the nation.

  He found a place where the grass had been churned into mud, just a short way from the main battle lines. A tuman had been rallied there and sent back in. Salsanan could almost see the line of their attack in his mind’s eye. He frowned as he walked through the echoes of the battle, revising his opinion of Mongke Khan’s brother. The charge had been tight, discipline excellent. The Sung lines had bowed back and Salsanan could see the broken and bloody spears where they had tried to stand. His years of training made him look right and left for the second charge that he would have sent in at the right moment. There. He led his horse by the reins over the corpses, moving carefully as they slid and shifted under his boots.