Chakahai had lived among the Mongols for long enough to know it was not just a scouting group that was forming. All the men but Khasar and his second, Samuka, were away at the city to the west and she bit her lip in frustration. Ho Sa would be with Khasar, of course, but surely Yao Shu would know what was happening. With a curt order, she started her servants moving with her, seeking out the Buddhist monk as the camp grew noisier all around. She could hear women screeching in anger and she passed one who was weeping on the shoulder of a young man. Chakahai frowned to herself, her suspicions hardening.
She passed the ger of Borte and Hoelun before she caught a glimpse of the monk. Chakahai hesitated outside, but the decision was made when Borte came out, flushed and angry. The two wives of Genghis saw each other at the same time and both stood stiffly, not quite able to put aside the strain they felt.
‘Do you have news?’ Chakahai spoke first, deliberately giving the older woman honour. It was a small thing, but Borte’s shoulders became less rigid and she nodded. Chakahai saw how weary she was as she spoke.
‘Genghis is taking the tumans,’ Borte said. ‘Khasar and Samuka have orders to leave at noon.’
One of Chakahai’s servants made a terrified sound and Chakahai reached out instantly, slapping the girl’s face. She turned back to Borte, who was already staring across the camp at the men gathering in ranks.
‘What if we are attacked?’ Chakahai asked.
Borte winced and shook her head.
‘How many times have I been asked that since the orders came?’ she said. She saw the genuine fear in the Xi Xia princess’s eyes and softened her tone. The woman had been given to Genghis as a gift by her defeated father. She had seen chaos in her time and knew the terror that came with it.
‘Do you think we will be defenceless, sister?’ Borte said.
Chakahai too had looked away, but the term of friendship brought her gaze snapping back.
‘Are we not?’ she demanded. ‘What can women and children do against soldiers, if they come?’
Borte sighed.
‘You were not raised in the tribes, Chakahai. If we are attacked, the women will take up knives and fight. Crippled warriors will mount as best they can and attack. Boys will use their bows. We have horses and weapons enough to hurt anyone who troubles us.’
Chakahai stared in silence, her heart pounding. How could her husband have left her undefended? She knew why Borte spoke in such a way. Panic would destroy the camp before they even sighted an enemy. Families would be torn between the safety of numbers and the fact that the camp itself would draw danger to it. Left alone to protect their children, many wives and mothers would be considering leaving in the night to find a safe place in the hills. To a mother of young children, the idea was tempting, but Chakahai resisted. Like Borte, she was the khan’s wife. The others would look to them for leadership. Of all the women left behind, they could not run.
Borte seemed to be waiting for a response and Chakahai thought carefully before replying. The children would be frightened as they saw the last warriors leave. They would need to see confidence, though it was all false.
‘Is it too late for me to learn the bow, sister?’ Chakahai said.
Borte smiled.
‘With those bony, narrow shoulders? It is. But find yourself a good knife.’
Chakahai nodded, though uncertainty swept through her.
‘I have never killed a man before, Borte.’
‘Perhaps you will not have the chance. The knife is to cut and shape straw warriors to put on the saddles of spare horses. In poor light, an enemy will not see our men have gone.’
Borte raised her eyes from her worries and the two women shared a glance before each one turned away, satisfied. There could be no true friendship between them, but neither had found a weakness in the other and both took comfort from that.
As the sun reached its highest point, Khasar looked back at the camp he had been told to abandon. It was as busy as an ants’ nest as women and children scurried between the gers. Even without the tumans, it was a vast assembly, more than a hundred thousand people and gers by a small river. Around them, herds grazed, oblivious. Everything they had looted from the Chin was there, from jade to gold and ancient weapons. Temuge and Kokchu had their collection of manuscripts and books. Khasar bit his lip at the thought of the shah’s soldiers finding such a prize undefended. Perhaps a thousand elderly or crippled warriors would remain, but he did not hold out hope that those who had lost arms and legs would stop a determined enemy. If they came, the gers would burn, but his brother had called him and he would not disobey. He had three wives and eleven young children somewhere in the maze of gers and he regretted not taking the time to speak to them before gathering his men.
It was done. The sun was high and he had been called. Khasar looked at his second in command, Samuka. The man was caught between pride at his promotion to lead a tuman and shame at abandoning the camp. Khasar clicked his tongue to catch the other man’s attention, then raised his arm and let it fall. His men kicked in their heels and rode with him, leaving everything they valued behind.
Jochi and Jebe rode together at the head of the tumans. Jochi’s mood was light as they wound their way through valleys back into the west. He had lost almost a thousand men. Some had fallen in the wild charge across the face of the ridge, while more had been cut down or fallen from sheer exhaustion in the long ride that none of them would ever forget. Most of those had been from his Chin soldiers, but those who survived rode with their heads high, knowing they had earned the right to follow their general. Jebe had lost as many, but they were men he had known for years under Arslan. They had died well, but would still be denied the sky funerals, where bodies were taken to the highest peaks to feed hawks and birds of prey. Both generals knew there was no time to honour the dead. Genghis’ brother-in-law Palchuk had been among the bodies, found with a great gash across his face from an Arab sword. Jebe did not know how Genghis would respond to the news and spent two days resting by the lake in grim silence.
Jebe and Jochi were painfully aware of the threat to the khan, but the horses were spent. They had been forced to let the animals recover their strength before remounting. Even then, it was too early. Many were still lame and it hurt the senior men to order the ruined ones killed and the meat distributed. Dozens of warriors carried a rack of ribs or a leg across their saddles, while others rode Arab horses in little better condition. For men who saw horses as the only true spoils of war, the battle in the pass had been a triumph worth telling round the fires for a generation. With each warrior, two or three of the Arab mounts ran alongside. Many were lame and broken-winded, but their strength could be used and the Mongols could not bear to leave them behind.
Eighteen thousand men rode with the generals as they turned away from the main valley and took a more tortuous route. As tempting as it was to ride in their own steps, the shah could well have left an ambushing force somewhere ahead. The men needed time to recover before facing an enemy once more.
Water at least was plentiful. Many of the men had drunk until their bellies were swollen. When they were being chased, they had emptied their bladders as the need came, letting the warm water cut through the coating of dust on their mounts. On the way back, they had food in them. The speed had been slowed by dozens at a time dismounting quickly and squatting on the ground before wiping themselves with rags and leaping back on. They were stinking, filthy and thin, but hardened by the land they had ridden for so long.
It was Jochi who saw the scouts riding back from a ridge ahead. In Jebe, he had found a man who understood the need to know terrain as well as Tsubodai and they were always surrounded by a ring of riders many miles out. Jochi whistled to catch Jebe’s attention, but the other general had also seen and merely raised his eyebrows in surmise.
‘Did I not send two men that way?’ Jochi called. Three were returning, and even from a distance, they could see the other rider was a scout like their own, without armour
or anything but a sword to slow him down. Some even rode without that weapon, depending on speed alone.
Without a signal, the young generals kicked their mounts forward of the line, hungry for information.
The scout was not from their tumans, though he looked almost as weary and dusty as their own men. Jochi and Jebe looked on as the young man dismounted and bowed, holding his reins in his hands. Jebe raised a hand and the warriors came to a halt. At first, the scout hesitated in the presence of two generals, unsure whom to address first. Jochi’s impatience broke the silence.
‘You have found us,’ he said. ‘Report.’
The scout bowed again, overwhelmed to be speaking to a son of the khan.
‘I was about to turn back when I saw the dust of your horses, general. Tsubodai sent me out. The shah is in the field with a great army.’
If the scout had expected any excitement at this news, he was disappointed.
‘And?’ Jebe asked.
The scout began to dip his head and hesitated again, his composure deserting him.
‘I was sent to bring you in at all speed, general. My lord Genghis will attack, but I do not know any more. I have been out for two days alone, looking for you.’
‘We could hit the rear if we get back into that valley,’ Jochi said to Jebe, ignoring the scout.
Jebe looked back at his men, knowing they were still close to complete exhaustion. A warrior of the tribes could ride all day and still fight, but the horses had clearer limits to their strength. The value of staging an attack on the shah’s rear ranks would be lost if a fresh enemy turned and cut them to pieces. Jebe nodded grimly to Jochi. Genghis would expect them to push on.
‘The shah’s army will have moved from where we left them,’ Jebe said. ‘It could be a hundred miles yet and then a battle to win.’
Jochi turned his pony, preparing to ride.
‘Then we will have to make good time, general,’ he said.
The scout watched the conversation warily, unsure whether he should say more. He eyed the herds of horses enviously, pony and Arab mount standing together.
‘If you have a fresh horse for me, I will ride ahead and tell the khan you are coming,’ he said.
For some reason, both generals shared a grin at his words.
‘Do you see any fresh horses?’ Jebe asked. ‘If you do, you should take one.’
The scout looked again at the milling animals, seeing the way they stood to favour sore legs. He glanced at the ranks of dusty, grim warriors with them. Some had their arms and legs bound in strips of torn cloth, showing bloody patches under the grime. For their part, the warriors stared back indifferently, ready for orders. Their generals had shown them their own strength in that long ride through the valley. Those who had survived had come out with a confidence they had not known before. If they could ride thirty thousand Arabs to death, what could they not do?
Disappointed, the scout bowed to the generals once more, before mounting. He was barely more than a boy and Jochi chuckled to see his nervousness. With fresh eyes, the general looked over the mass of riders. They had been tested and they would not fail him. For an instant, he saw the pleasure his father took in leading men in war. There was nothing like it.
Jochi clicked with his tongue and the scout looked at him.
‘Tell my father we are coming. If he has fresh orders, send scouts along the long valley just to the north. You will find us there.’
The scout nodded earnestly and raced away, filled with the importance of his task.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Shah Ala-ud-Din Mohammed seethed as the elephant under him rocked like a ship at sea. The last he had seen of his cavalry had been watching it disappear into the east days before. After each dawn prayer, he could not resist turning to the sun to see if they were returning, but his hopes sank lower each time. The desert tribes could not be trusted and he was certain Khalifa was resting at some distant town, caring nothing for the betrayal. Ala-ud-Din swore there would be a reckoning, when the Mongols had been thrown back over their mountains, or destroyed.
All around the shah, his army marched stolidly on, heading for the hills that would lead them to Otrar and the Mongol khan. The sight of the shining ranks never failed to lift his ageing heart. In truth, the invasion had come at the right time for him. He had spent almost twelve years bringing kings and chieftains to heel, and when they were at their most rebellious, an enemy had swept in from the north, forcing them to choose loyalty over bickering and petty rivalry.
It was hard not to think of Saladin as the army strode on over rocky ground. The great king had captured Jerusalem and sent crusaders reeling. Saladin had faced enemies as fearsome as the Mongol khan and more so. Each night, when the army made its camp, Ala-ud-Din read lines by lamplight from Saladin’s own record of his battles, learning what he could before tucking it under a thin pillow and finding sleep. Next to his copy of the Koran, it was his most prized possession.
The curtained howdah was still cool after the night, though the sun would be fierce as it rose. Ala-ud-Din broke his fast with a plate of dates and dried apricots, washing them down with a draught of cool yoghurt. His men carried dried mutton and flat bread that had long gone stale, but it did not matter. Otrar was not more than a few days away and his idiot cousin, Inalchuk, would entertain him with the best of meats and fruit when they saved his city for him.
Ala-ud-Din jerked as his servant cleared his throat softly outside the curtains.
‘What is it?’ he demanded. The curtain flicked back to reveal the man standing on a step set in the elephant’s belly strap.
‘The last of the coffee, master.’
Ala-ud-Din nodded and held out his hand for the cup. They had been on the move for almost an hour and he was surprised to find the black liquid still steaming. He tipped it carefully so as not to dribble the precious drink onto his beard.
‘How have you kept it hot?’ he asked.
His manservant smiled to see his master pleased.
‘I put the pot in a leather bag, master, filled with ashes from the morning fires.’
Ala-ud-Din grunted, sipping. It was bitter and delicious.
‘You have done well, Abbas. This is very fine.’
The curtain dropped as his servant stepped down. Ala-ud-Din heard him trotting at the side of the great beast for a while. No doubt he was already thinking of what he could scavenge for his master’s next meal after midday prayers.
If his men would have allowed it, Ala-ud-Din had considered granting a dispensation not to pray as they marched. They lost more than three hours a day doing so and the delays chafed on him. It would be taken as weakness in the faith by those who looked to challenge him and he brushed off the thought once more. It was their belief that kept them strong, after all. The words of the prophet formed the call to prayer and even a shah could not resist.
He had turned his army from the great valley at last, heading north to Otrar. Ahead was a range of brown hills and, beyond that, his men would fall on the Mongol host with all the ferocity of men bred to the harsh southern deserts. Ala-ud-Din closed his eyes in the rocking howdah and considered those he had brought to war. With the loss of Khalifa’s riders, he had only five hundred horsemen, his own guard of noble sons. Already he had been forced to use them as messengers and scouts. For the sons of ancient families, it was an insult to their blood, but he had no choice.
Further back in the column, six thousand camels plodded, the supplies of the entire army on their backs. Half as fast as the best horses, they could carry immense weight. The rest of the army marched, while the shah and the most senior men rode in comfort. He doted on his elephants for sheer power and strength, eighty bulls in their prime.
Looking out from the howdah, Ala-ud-Din took pride in the force he had assembled. Saladin himself would have been proud of them. The shah could see his oldest son, Jelaudin, mounted on a black stallion. The shah’s heart soared at the sight of the handsome young man who would one day succe
ed him. The men adored the prince and it was not hard to dream of his line ruling all the Arab peoples for centuries to come.
Ala-ud-Din thought again of Khalifa’s horsemen and struggled to prevent anger from spoiling the morning. He would have them hunted down when the battle was over and leave not one of them alive. He swore it silently as his army marched on and the hills grew slowly closer.
Tsubodai’s scouts came racing in as he crouched on one knee, overlooking the plains below the hills and the shah’s army. The view stretched for many miles and he did not need the young men to tell him the enemy was coming through the wide pass, the one he had chosen to defend.
As the scouts dismounted, Tsubodai waved a hand in their direction.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘Go and tell the other generals. We will hit them here.’
In the distance, he saw the shah’s outriders cutting dusty lines through scrub crops as they rode north. Tsubodai tried to put himself in the shah’s position, but it was hard. He would never have brought such an army through a single pass. Instead, he would have gone round the mountains entirely and let Otrar fall. The distances would have delayed the shah for another month in the field, but the Mongol tumans would have been forced to meet him on open ground, with all advantages stolen away.
Instead, the shah took the easiest route, showing that he valued Otrar. Tsubodai was learning everything he could, noting every decision that would help to destroy his enemy. He knew as well as anyone that Genghis was over-extended in this realm. It was no longer a matter of bringing vengeance to one city, but simple survival for their people. They had stuck their hands into a wasps’ nest every bit as furious as the Chin empire and once again the stakes were at their highest.
Tsubodai smiled at the thought. Some of the men fought for new land, for exotic women, even for gold. From his private conversations with the khan, Tsubodai knew he and Genghis cared for none of those things. The sky father gave a man his life and nothing else. The khan’s people were alone on the plains and it was a savage loneliness. Yet they could ride and conquer, take cities and empires one by one. Perhaps in time those who followed them would be as weak and soft as the city-dwellers they faced, but that did not matter to Tsubodai. He was not responsible for the choices of his sons and grandsons, only for the way he lived his own life. As he knelt on hard grey stone and watched the clouds of dust come closer below, he thought again that he had only one rule, which guided everything he did.
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