“I hate ye merchants. But I hate more the anonymous mass of mankind, who cannot think except with their bellies and their genitals. But ye must reckon with them soon, or die. Ye must give support to a leader who hateth them, but who hath the skill and intelligence to unite them and subjugate them and lead them. For the protection of yourselves, and the maintenance of your profits. They desire only a little bread and wine, and a single hatred. Such can a leader give them.”
The silence that fell sharply between them was only enhanced by the laughter and uproar of the others. But they looked into each other’s eyes unwinkingly, Temujin with infinite stonelike calm and immobility, and Toghrul with the eyes and expression of an intent serpent.
Then Toghrul Khan whispered, leaning towards the young man until the latter was struck in the face by his hot and fetid breath:
“But where is there such a leader?”
Temujin continued to stare into his eyes. And then, after a long moment, he shrugged. “Who knoweth?” he replied indifferently.
And still again, he filled his cup, and drank deeply. And Toghrul watched him, panting dryly, his face grimacing as though he grinned.
A servant now approached them, carrying two golden cups encrusted with jewels upon a silver salver. He bowed before Toghrul Khan. “Here, lord, are the cups which thou didst request,” he said.
Toghrul Khan turned sharply and looked at the goblets. Temujin turned his bland face towards him with simple interest. Toghrul continued to stare at the goblets, and then, at last, he slowly turned his head and gazed piercingly at Temujin. For a long time they looked at each other.
Then Toghrul Khan smiled a sweet and evil smile. He shook his head and motioned the wine away.
“Nay,” he said, “I like not this wine, Chaffa. Take it hence.”
The servant bowed, went away.
Temujin smiled grimly to himself. Toghrul Khan gazed at him with intense affection.
“Thou art a strange youth, Temujin, but I love thee! And I wish to give thee a small gift to reveal my love.” He reached within his robes and withdrew a cloth bag. He opened it. The lamplight glittered on coins of gold. He retied the bag, flung it upon Temujin’s knee. And then he pulled off a ring from his finger, and thrust it upon Temujin’s finger.
“There, my son! Now thou knowest how I love thee! I am thy foster father, and I remind thee now, with all solemnity, of our sacred pledge to aid each other! Never must thou forget it, I adjure thee!”
And he fell upon Temujin’s shoulder and embraced him.
Seeing this, the generals and officers gaped with astonishment. Temujin’s friends burst into wild cries of exultation, and raised their hands and shook them in the air. But the generals and officers looked at each other in dumb stupefaction.
A little later, before they retired, Toghrul Khan said to Temujin:
“I have thought much of what thou didst say, Temujin. But how can even a strong man unite all the murdering and marauding tribes?”
Temujin raised his hand above his head, then slowly clenched his fist, as though he were crushing something in it.
He said quietly, almost whisperingly, but his eyes were full of a terrible light:
“By force. Only by force.”
Chapter 4
The companions of Temujin were jubilant over the success of his visit. As they rode homewards, they sang and shouted. Even the silent Subodai laughed inordinately, with love, happy that his leader had not been slighted by the mighty Toghrul Khan. Temujin rode placidly, smilingly watching the gay antics of his friends. But Jamuga did not race, nor laugh, nor shout. He rode beside Temujin, his head bent thoughtfully, his wan lip bitten.
Temujin well knew these moods of his anda, and was aware that they were partially rooted in uneasiness, distrust and disapproval, stemming from his, Temujin’s, actions. Sometimes these moods irritated him, and he would engage in heated argument with Jamuga, defending himself, and giving vent to extravagant language in which he threatened even more heinous and doubtful conduct. Sometimes they embarrassed him, and he would argue reasonably with Jamuga, seeking for approval and understanding and consent. And sometimes (and these occasions were ominously becoming more frequent) he was tranquilly indifferent and indulgently impatient.
Jamuga, who had been hoping that Temujin would provoke him into angry argument by inquiring as to the reason for his moody silence, felt a dismay which was becoming familiar with him. He glanced swiftly at Temujin’s bronzed and metallically hard profile, which was maturely calm and composed. As he did so, his heart sank.
He was the first to speak. “Temujin, thou wert boastful with Toghrul Khan. Thou dost promise extravagantly and foolishly. But thou didst not ask him for the assistance for which we made this visit. Thou hast upon thy finger a new ring, yet we have no warriors behind us from the camp of Toghrul. Why is this so?”
Temujin smiled, without turning his head to his anda. “I did not ask him for warriors, nor did I ask him for assistance.”
Jamuga’s pale face flushed with anger, but he kept his voice even: “But why, Temujin? Is this not folly? We return as poor as we came, and as helpless. Except,” he added with sardonic bitterness, “for the ring upon thy finger, which will not buy us pastures, and will not protect our women and our children.”
Temujin flicked his stallion lightly with his whip, and the animal leaped forward a step or two. He regarded the pale and vivid sky tranquilly. He spoke as though addressing himself: “There is an auspicious occasion for asking, and there is an inauspicious occasion. This was not auspicious.”
Jamuga exclaimed, his light voice hard and cold: “But Toghrul Khan’s last words were to remind thee that thou must not forget the oath that bound you two together! Was that not auspicious?”
“No. More than any other time, this was most inauspicious.” He gazed over his shoulder blandly at Jamuga. “Thou art a man of wisdom, but like most wise men, thou dost know nothing of mankind. Thou dost live in a world where words are valid, acts forthright, smiles honorable, where, in truth, all things are simple and have little under the surface. Alas! Such is not the real world, where there is nothing but duplicity, treachery, greed, lies, cruelty and rapine. I deal with this real world, and watch each player as he casteth his dice, knowing that even the spots he doth turn up are lies, that his every smile is mask for another meaning, where his voice is but a cloud that hideth his real face.”
“And thou dost not think that Toghrul Khan would have assisted thee?” asked Jamuga, incredulously.
Temujin shook his head. “Perhaps he might have. I am sure, at the last, that he would have given me what I desired. Nevertheless, the occasion was inauspicious, and because he offered, it was the more necessary that I refuse.”
“But what will Kurelen say? He will upbraid thee for this? He knoweth how sorely we need help.”
Temujin smiled slightly. “But Kurelen, who is subtle, will understand, more than any other man.”
But Jamuga was bitterly disappointed, and full of dismay.
“Thou didst disdain to ask, because thou didst wish to impress a wench with golden hair!” he cried. “Oh, I saw thee! Simpering and posturing and fixing thine eyes and grinning, and cutting a figure! Thou canst leave no woman alone, if she hath not the face of a camel!”
Temujin burst into loud laughter. “It is true that I love women, and that the softness of a woman’s thighs is worth an empire. But, nevertheless, they cost an empire, and so, I seek to, acquire one.”
“Thou dost boast like a child,” said Jamuga, with scorn. “I heard thee! ‘A strong leader,’ thou didst say to Toghrul Khan, and he laughed in his sleeve at thee, thou, a shaggy nomad with eight geldings and five stallions to thy name, and a starving band of women and children and miserable warriors! Thou didst talk like a kha khan, when thou hast nothing but the little bag of gold he flung at thee as he would fling a bone at a dog! Thou dost dream the dreams of a madman, and thy belly is as flat as a stone, and as full of nourishment!”
Temujin answered him with such mildness that a cold chill struck at Jamuga’s heart, as though with premonition:
“Toghrul Khan did not laugh in his sleeve. And thou art right: I dream dreams, but out of their frail stuff I shall build an empire. I shall, indeed, be a Kha Khan!”
Jamuga tried to laugh acridly, but the sound died in his throat. But finally, in a stifled voice he said:
“Think, rather, how to alleviate the lot of thy people. They are poor and wretched. They are hungry and lost. A good leader is he who speaketh with gentleness and pity, and liveth only that his people are comforted and sheltered. Once a chieftain was father to his clan, feeding them and guiding them. But the old blood tie hath vanished. We have a new society. Each of our men must maraud for himself, like a wild dog leaving the pack—”
“I have said, that we must have unity,” remarked Temujin with indifference.
“But thou dost not mean what I mean!” cried Jamuga, coloring. “Thou dost seek unity for conquest. I seek it for peace and security, and the comfort of the poor and homeless.”
Temujin turned his face to him, and it was as smooth and expressionless as polished stone. “I must remind thee, Jamuga, that thou hast said, thyself, that I am poor and shabby, and that I must not dream vast dreams.”
Jamuga looked at him in silence, then cried out: “I must breathe!”
He raced his narrow black horse ahead, and soon had outstripped the others. Soon his figure was a tiny racing one along the rim of the desert horizon, weaving its way through tamarisk and desert shrub and boulder. The others, seeing this, came back to Temujin. Kasar asked anxiously: “What troubleth thee, my brother?”
“Nothing,” replied Temujin placidly. “Jamuga merely wished to breathe purer air.” And he laughed with lightness.
It was not until they stopped for the night in the shadow of an overhanging cliff that Jamuga returned. And then he was pale and morose, and hardly spoke. It was in vain that he reminded himself insistently that Temujin must toil for years to provide sustenance for his people, and that the odds against his mere personal survival for a year were overwhelming. He was young; he had been abandoned by over two-thirds of his tribe; he was poor and had no allegiances, and no man was his friend. No powerful khan had taken him as a vassal, and promised him help and support. It was inevitable that within a short time even the remnant of his people would desert him for some more powerful chieftain who would be able to lead them and maintain them. And then, he, like a hunted dog, would be destroyed by stronger leaders of other tribes, unless he would become as a humble member of the anonymous mass. Therefore, he, Jamuga, was foolish to entertain this immense vague fear, which was without form, and had only drifted from the strange and fateful face of a youth who had nothing but the coat upon his back. But it was all in vain. The fear remained, and when the night came he could not sleep. Near him, he heard Temujin’s deep and steadfast breathing, and thought him asleep.
But when the moon, moving across the heavens, sent a long cold beam into the hollow of the cliff, and it fell upon Temujin’s face, Jamuga saw that his anda’s eyes were open and fixed, and that he was not asleep at all. He leaned on his elbow, and called softly: “Temujin!” all his sore yearning in his voice, all his desire for peace between them urgent on his face.
Temujin slowly turned his head, and smiled with friendly affection. “Canst thou not sleep either, Jamuga? Come, let us walk out under the moon.” He got up and Jamuga followed him, wrapping his cloak about him against the night air, which was as sharp and clear as ice.
They left the sleeping companions, wrapped in their cloaks. They walked past the horses, who slept with bent heads, their saddles spread out upon low rocks. They walked slowly and softly over a black earth plated with bright silver, and under a sky like an inverted silver bowl, polished to dazzling radiance. The weird and soundless silence of the desert engulfed them. In the distance there was a black wall, like a man-made rampart, and on every hand they had the mysterious and uneasy impression that thousands of spectral eyes were watching them. High shrub and dead and lonely fir seemed like a malignant and waiting presence, about to leap into life. They had the feeling of unreality, not a dreamlike unreality, but of a supernatural awareness, as though they had been transported to a far planet where men had never been before. Their shadows, black and sharp as jet, writhed behind them on the desert floor, endowed with an occult life.
Temujin halted and gazed at the sky. His voice was hushed: “On nights like these, Jamuga, on the thousands of nights of the desert, I feel in strange communication with another world, a world of malevolence and horror and vivid life. I cannot explain it. I cannot see this world, but I feel that I breathe its air, that my body brusheth its inhabitants, and that I feel the beatings of their hearts in and about me. Sometimes I am afraid, conscious of awful terrors which I cannot discern. And sometimes, like this, I feel that I understand everything!”
He was silent a moment, then he cried out in the strangest voice: “O ye mysterious spirits who live in the air of men, and hateth them! I am one with you! I implore your presence and your help! I have known from all time that ye and I comprehend each other, as ye comprehend men who cometh like me, out of wind and terror and flame, and returneth to them! I know I come, but I know not why. Only ye know! I ask not to pierce the mystery, but only to invoke its powers! Abandon me not, for I know ye, and I am the sword in your hands!”
His face, uplifted, was a mask of black stone cut into angles with a silver knife. His eyes glittered like the eyes of a madman. He flung up his arms, and his cloak fell in heavy folds about him. He stood there, under the moon, tall, vibrant, a statue of dark marble illuminated with the light of another and more terrible world.
Jamuga said to himself: He is mad. And again: He is mad! But he knew he lied in his heart, and he was full of dread and fear. He gazed awfully at the sky. For a frightful moment or so he was certain that some fearful Malignancy had halted, had paused to listen, and with its all-seeing eyes, was gazing at Temujin. Perhaps some demon, thought Jamuga, his reason failing; perhaps some Presence which by its touch could shatter the whole earth to dust.
Temujin dropped his arms. He turned his head and smiled at Jamuga. “Let us go on,” he said in a normal voice.
Jamuga followed him. He spoke at last, painfully:
“What dost thou intend to do now, that thou hast not asked the assistance of Toghrul Khan?”
Temujin shrugged, smiled again:
“I know the end of the journey. I know what awaiteth me. I am like a man who travelleth a road destined for him, but can see only a length before him. I shall go on from point to point, knowing only that I am on the road. My destiny guideth me, and knowing this, I am content.”
He put his arm about Jamuga’s shoulder and said: “Come with me, mine anda. Let us go on together.”
Then Jamuga, against all the arguments of reason and scepticism, heard himself (to his own dull amazement), cry out violently:
“No, no! Never! Unto the end of the world—never!”
Chapter 5
As they rode home towards the little river Tungel, where the Yakka Mongols were encamped, Temujin thought with pleasure of his young wife, Bortei, to whom he was returning. He recalled that he had not thought of her once during his sojourn with Toghrul Khan, and was amused. The beautiful Azara, whom he had not seen since the night of her desperate warning, had occupied his desires and dazzled his senses. When he brought her face before his inner vision it seemed to him that he was remembering a dream of paradise, which all his life he must strive to seize.
There was something more than mere huge lust in his desire for her. She was the glory which all men dream of—a glory more than woman-flesh. He had looked into her eyes and had seen radiance and tenderness and understanding. Never would he forget her, and someday she would be his. In the meantime, she was the lofty moon that sailed in silver light over the dark cliffs and caves where he had his daily being. And in these caves and
in the shadow of these cliffs he could live quite comfortably and affectionately with Bortei. In his mind, the two women never approached. They were distinct creatures, one of heaven, the other of earth.
He had only to accelerate his plans, before Azara was given in marriage to the Caliph of Bokhara. He thought to himself: She is the mate of my heart and my soul, and naught can divide us. Of Bortei he thought: She is the mate of my flesh, the mother of my sons, and the comforter of my bed.
The closer he came to Bortei, the more pleased he was. He was like a man returning to a warm hearth after a journey to far and glorious places which he would never forget. Yet the memory of Azara hung in his thoughts like a sweet perfume, intoxicating and exhilarating.
They were riding rapidly homewards, now, over the smooth desert floor, where the broken red pillars stood beside their fallen black shadows in the molten light. The burning wind tightened the skins of the young men over their facial bones, and they drew their hoods over their heads and brows to protect them. About the bits in the horses’ mouths foam gathered, and they panted in the heat. They saw the yellow gleam of the little river in the distance, and hastened their pace. They wound about the flank of a shattered red cliff, and uttered a loud cry to warn their people of their approach. They saw the black yurts clustered near the river, and the barking dogs rushed out to greet them.
Suddenly Temujin reined in his horse with a low exclamation to his companions. They reined in their horses, also, and they stood in rigid and immobile silence, staring at the little tent village in the valley below. Everything was enormously silent in the bitter and magnifying glare of the molten sun, save for the barking of the dogs, which had a thin and metallic sound. But there was no movement about the village, no sign of horses or herds, no running child or woman or campfire. It were as though all life except that of the dogs had fled. They saw the yurts in the inky pools of their shadows; they saw the fitful sluggish golden gleam of the river; they saw the fantastic scarlet hills and the green desert shrubs on the yellow floor of the earth. But there was nothing else.
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