More and more of the enemy turned from the ferocious attack and Jochi was blinded for a moment by a spray of blood across his eyes. Panic filled him at the thought of being hit when he could not see, but then he heard Chagatai’s horns moaning across the valley, followed at last by the sound of thunder.
Chagatai’s tuman struck an enemy already desperate to get away from those who assailed them. Jochi watched panting as a space cleared around him and fresh shafts tore into the fleeing Arabs. He saw his brother again for an instant, riding like a king before he reached the foot of the valley and vanished from sight. Jochi spat hot phlegm, his battered body aching for the blow he wanted to land on Chagatai’s neck. His men knew what had happened. He would be hard-pressed not to have them pick fights with those who had stood and watched in safety. Jochi swore to himself as he imagined Chagatai defending the delay, words like sweet grease in his mouth.
There were no enemies near Jochi as he ran a thumb along the edge of his sword, feeling the nicks in the steel. He was surrounded by bodies, many of them men who had ridden through the hills and destroyed the shah’s best cavalry. Others looked to him with anger still fresh in their eyes. Chagatai was busy gutting the remainder of the Arab column, his horses trampling flags and banners into the bloody ground.
If he dealt with Chagatai as his brother deserved, both tumans would fight to the death, Jochi warned himself. His brother’s officers would not let him anywhere near Chagatai with a blade, not when they knew the reason for his anger. Their shame would not prevent them drawing swords and then his own men would respond. Jochi struggled with a powerful desire to race across the battlefield and see his brother cut into pieces. He could not go to Genghis for justice. It was too easy to imagine his father pouring scorn on his complaints, dismissing them as a criticism of tactics rather than a charge of murder. His breath shuddered with frustration as the sounds of battle moved away from him, leaving him empty. Still he had won, even in the midst of betrayal. He felt pride for his men mingle with the hatred and impotence forced on him.
Slowly, Jochi wiped blood from the blade he had won from Chagatai. He had faced death that night against the tiger and he had faced it again on that day. He could not simply let pass what had been done to him.
He flicked droplets of blood onto the ground and began to ride slowly to where his brother sat his horse. With grim glances at each other, his men followed, ready to fight again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Samarkand was an attractive city. Genghis walked his pony along a wide street lined with houses, the unshod hooves clicking over uneven stones. Somewhere ahead, smoke hung in the sky and he could hear the sounds of fighting, but this part of the city was deserted and surprisingly peaceful.
His men were wary for him as they walked on either side with bows bent, ready to punish the slightest sign of movement. They had beaten the garrison back inside the city in an orderly retreat that would have done honour to his own tumans. Genghis was surprised to find they had prepared a second position within the city itself, but then Samarkand was a surprising place. As with Yenking, he had begun to think he would have to starve them out, but they had risked it all as soon as a relieving army was in reach. His reason for insisting on speed had borne fruit once again, facing an enemy who vastly underestimated the strength of the tumans.
If he stayed in the shah’s lands, he suspected they would eventually communicate, with the most able officers working out ways to counter his attacks. He smiled to himself at the thought. By the time they ever did, the whole of Khwarezm would be under his control.
Trees grew along the edges of the streets, full-grown, but somehow neat. Genghis could see the fading white discs of pruning cuts as he passed, as well as dark stains on the dusty roots where they had been watered just that morning. He shook his head in wonder at the labour involved. He supposed city men enjoyed the shade the trees cast in the summer and he had to admit they gave off a pleasant scent in the warm breeze. Perhaps even city men needed to see a touch of green leaves from the stone balconies. Standing in the stirrups, Genghis could see an open bowl of bare earth ringed in tiered wooden benches. Samarkand had many strange things within the walls. It could have been a place where the Arabs gathered to hear speakers, or race horses even. His men were bringing prisoners there and it was already dark with a huddled mass of people, bound and numb with fear.
He passed a stone well at a junction of roads and dismounted to examine it. As he peered over the edge, he saw a dark circle of water far below. On impulse, he took the leather bucket on its rope and dropped it in, just to hear the splash. When he pulled it up, he drank deeply, clearing the dust from his throat before passing it to one of his archers and getting back in the saddle. Samarkand was well placed, in its position in the bow of a river and lakes. On such soil you could grow anything and Genghis had seen empty markets full of fresh fruit and vegetables by the main gate. He wondered what the inhabitants did with their days if food and water were so plentiful. It was clear they did not spend it in practice of arms after the way the garrison had retreated. His tumans had simply followed them into the city, too close for them to shut the gates.
The sheer size of Samarkand was difficult to comprehend. Genghis was surrounded by roads and houses, large buildings and small. The shah’s palace dominated the maze around it, but Genghis aimed his mount at a needle minaret to the west of the city, his curiosity aroused by such a strange structure looming over the rest. If anything, it seemed to grow taller as he approached.
The minaret stood over a large open square, surrounded by squat buildings with shuttered windows. Genghis hardly noticed as his officers kicked in doors and checked each one for enemies. Grunts and scuffles sounded, but the warriors knew their business and the noises did not last long. More prisoners were trussed and dragged back to the racetrack, some of them staring wildly at the man who stood alone at the foot of the minaret.
Genghis ran his hand along the base of the structure, enjoying the feel of the intricate tiles on the surface. Each one interlocked with the next and he was tempted to take his knife and work one loose just to look at it. The narrow tower shone in the sunlight and he had to crane his neck to see the top from where he stood. As he leaned back, the hat he wore suddenly tipped and fell at his feet. He smiled in amazement that men could build such a thing, then reached down to pick it up.
Genghis chuckled to himself as he placed the hat back on his head. One of the men heard the sound.
‘My lord khan?’ he asked, ready for any order.
‘I was just thinking that I have never bowed to anyone since coming to these lands,’ Genghis replied lightly. ‘Until this tower.’
The man smiled to see his khan in so mellow a mood. Perhaps it was the open nature of the city they walked through. Chin towns were cramped in comparison and Genghis could not imagine ruling such places. Here, in the sun, it was possible. The citizens would have fresh water and food from the markets to feed their families. Farmers would bring it in each morning before dawn and take their payment in coins of bronze and silver. For an instant, Genghis saw the whole workings of a city clearly in his mind, from the merchants to the artisans, to teachers and scribes. Somehow it all worked, though he could not yet understand where all the coins came from in the first place. Were there mines nearby? And if there were, who made the metal into coins and gave them away to start the commerce of Samarkand? The shah? It was confusing and complex, but he turned his face to the sun and felt at peace. He had won a battle that morning and sent his sons to break another army come to relieve Samarkand. It was a good day.
The smell of smoke came stronger into the square and Genghis put aside his wandering thoughts. His men roamed everywhere to collect prisoners, but the garrison fought on and he remounted to oversee the fighting. With his line of archers, he walked his horse to where grey smoke billowed over the stunned city. As he rode, he firmed his mouth. What was the point of wells and courtyards if you could not hold them? There were always hung
ry men willing to take what you had built. A ruler had to be a fool to let them peer into his cities and take what they wanted. Yet a city could be defended, Genghis knew. He had broken enough walls in his time to have a good idea of what worked best against his catapults and wall hooks. He was tempted to test the idea with one of his generals the next winter, Tsubodai for preference. His favourite general would relish the challenge. If Tsubodai could hold a city against the tumans, perhaps Genghis would consider leaving them intact to be ruled by his own family. Otherwise, he might as well leave them staked out like the goats they used to catch wolves at home.
As he turned into a main street, Genghis saw sprawled bodies, most of them in the armour the Arabs of Samarkand favoured. A doorway was splashed with drying blood, still bright in the sunlight, but with no sign of how it got there. The snap of bows was louder by then and he passed two more streets before he reached the shah’s palace grounds and the high wall around them. The smoke was thicker there, though it seemed to be limited to a few houses nearby. No doubt someone had knocked over a lamp in a struggle, or kicked a cooking fire as they rushed through. The flames were roaring away, making the day even hotter. His men milled around the shah’s wall like furious ants, suddenly aware that the khan watched.
Genghis reined in to observe his men assault the home of Shah Ala-ud-Din. Beyond the wall, he could see a rising hill set with flower gardens, and on the crest a great palace stood. Whether by accident or design, the walls of the grounds came right down to the street itself, their length broken only by wide gates of heavy iron bars. Genghis glanced up and down the long street that ran alongside. The houses were in deep shade, but looked cleaner than he had expected. Perhaps the people of Samarkand had cesspools running under the houses, or some system to carry the nightsoil away. There were problems in having so many people in one place and Genghis was beginning to appreciate the intricate cleverness of Samarkand.
There was no room for catapults, even if his men had troubled to drag them through the streets to that place. Though the walls were barely ten feet high, the garrison had chosen a good place to defend to the death.
Genghis watched as the best archers stood back, sending shafts at any face that appeared over the high edge. Was there a platform on the other side? There must have been. Genghis could see armoured men ducking back to it as arrows whirred past their heads. Not many survived at such a range, though they carried heavy shields and wielded their swords and bows from behind that protection. Genghis saw his shaman, Kokchu, exhorting the warriors to greater efforts. The man wore only a breechcloth around his waist, his body painted in lines of dark blue so that his skin seemed to writhe as he moved.
With the shaman and the khan present, the warriors worked themselves into a frenzy, using spiked poles to pull at the top edge of the wall, trying to bring it all down. They had already loosened part of it and Genghis saw a great crack appear in the brickwork. He had been about to give the order to stand down while catapults were brought. The closest houses could have been levelled to make a platform and then the wall would have fallen easily. Seeing the crack, he relaxed. It would not be long.
Kokchu had spotted him, of course. Genghis could see the shaman watching out of the corner of his eyes. He remembered the first time they had met, when Kokchu had led the Naiman khan to the top of a hill away from a battle. Genghis had given him just a year of life, but many more had passed since then and he had grown in influence, part of the handful of loyal men who ruled under the khan. Genghis approved the shaman’s naked ambition. It suited him well to have his warriors in awe of the spirits and who could really say if the sky father had blessed their khan? The victories had come and Kokchu had played his part.
Genghis frowned suddenly, his thoughts shifting to another memory. Something nagged at his mind as he played words over in his head, but it would not come clear. With a sharp gesture, he summoned one of his scouts, always watching for orders.
‘Go to the camp outside the city,’ Genghis told the fresh-faced young warrior. ‘Find my wife, Chakahai, and ask her why she cannot look on Kokchu without thinking of my sister. Do you understand?’
The man bowed deeply, nodding as he memorised the question. He did not know why the khan should look so thunderous on a day when they had taken a new city, but his task was to obey and he did so without question, riding swiftly away and not even looking back when the wall tumbled outwards, crushing two warriors who had not moved in time. Under the cold gaze of the khan, Kokchu capered like a painted spider and the warriors rushed in with a roar.
Chagatai watched his brother ride towards him. The bulk of his tuman were walking the battlefield, looting the dead or despatching those who still moved. A core of warriors and officers remained with him and he did not have to give them orders. They knew why Jochi approached and moved subtly to surround their general. Many of the older men deliberately sheathed their swords rather than face a general with a bared blade, though Chagatai sneered at them and called out in anger as he saw it. Those closest to him were all young and confident. They kept their weapons high and visible, their faces arrogant. They did not care that Chagatai had left his brother to be killed. Their loyalty was not to the rape-born son, but to the true one, who would one day inherit and be khan.
Even the young warriors became nervous at the sight of Jochi’s men. Chagatai’s personal guard had not fought that day and those Jochi had with him were wet with blood, from their hair and spattered faces to the soaked cloth of their leggings. They stank of sweat and death and the sneers faded from the faces of Chagatai’s young warriors as they came close. This was not a game. Jochi shook with strong emotion and he had already killed that day.
He did not rein in as he reached the warriors with Chagatai. His gaze never wavered from his brother as his mount pushed two standing men aside even as they opened their mouths to warn him off. If he had paused for a moment, they would have firmed their nerve and stopped him, but he did not. He passed two more men before a senior officer swung his horse in hard and blocked Jochi’s path to Chagatai.
The officer was one of those who had put aside his blade. He sweated as he came within reach of Jochi’s sword and hoped the general would not strike him down. He saw Jochi’s gaze pull away from his smiling brother and settle on the man in his path.
‘Get out of my way,’ Jochi said to him.
The officer paled, but shook his head. Jochi heard Chagatai laugh and his hand tightened on the wolf’s-head hilt.
‘Are you troubled, brother?’ Chagatai called, his eyes bright with malice. ‘After such a victory as well? There are too many nervous hands around here. Perhaps you should return to your own men before there is an accident.’
Jochi sighed, hiding the flare of his anger well. He did not want to die in such a place, but he had been mocked too many times in his life. He had held his temper until his muscles knotted, but on this day he would take his grinning little brother with him.
He dug in his heels and his mount leapt forward. Jochi backhanded the officer across the face, knocking him off his saddle as Jochi’s mount went past. Behind him, his men roared and attacked.
Jochi had the pleasure of seeing Chagatai’s face turn to shock before more men stood in his way. Warriors around them gaped at the sudden crash of arms and came rushing in. Jochi had known they would, but his own men were close enough to force a path and their blood was already up. They killed without compunction, feeling his rage as keenly as their own.
Chagatai’s young hotheads were not slow to respond. In heartbeats, they were struggling and stabbing men who hacked at them. Jochi felt his horse cut from under him and slid free, staggering as his leg buckled. His right leg was dark with blood from an earlier wound. He took another step forward, ducking under a wild swing and drawing his ragged blade across an armpit, cutting deeply.
Chagatai saw his wounded brother on foot and shouted, kicking his horse forward through his own men. The shoulders of the animal knocked them aside and suddenly he w
as there facing Jochi. He brought his sword down in a sweeping arc and Jochi almost fell under the hooves as he dodged, his leg giving way again. Chagatai gave up any pretence at style and swung wildly. He had been attacked among his own men and there had never been a better chance to remove the thorn that was his brother.
With a sickening jolt, Chagatai’s horse had its leg broken by a berserk warrior standing at Jochi’s side. The animal went down sideways and Chagatai could not free his legs from the stirrups. He screamed as his shin snapped and almost passed out from the pain. He felt his sword kicked roughly away from his hand and, when he looked up, Jochi was standing there, a terrible triumph on his face.
Chagatai’s tuman howled as they saw him go down. They lost all caution then, hacking at the last of Jochi’s men in berserk fury.
Jochi could feel his spattering blood leeching out his strength. He struggled to bring his sword up as he stared into Chagatai’s eyes. He did not speak as he chopped it down. He did not feel the arrow that took him in the chest, spinning him around before the blow could land. His awareness drained away and he did not know if he had killed the brother who wanted so desperately to kill him.
Chagatai yelled fresh orders and, if anything, the fighting intensified as more and more of Jochi’s tuman flooded in. The fighting continued and hundreds died to revenge their fallen general, or save him. They did not know. A knot of Jochi’s men broke free with his flopping body held between them, the arrow still sticking out. As they pulled back, senior men blew the signal to disengage on both sides.
Snarling and in pain, the tumans wrenched apart and at last there was clear ground between them. Minghaan officers bullied and kicked their men away, using their sword hilts to knock down more than one who tried to dart around them. The chain of command reclaimed them and each jagun of a hundred, each arban of ten had its officer growling at the men to hold.
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