Temujin told himself that he was listening to the words of a madman, and that because of these words the earth was shaking under his feet, and that its face had assumed a grotesque and insane expression.
He said suddenly: “This story is the story of a slave!”
The bishop bowed his head. “The story of a slave who was a King,” he said, and his voice trembled.
Temujin gazed at him, fascinated. The story of a slave who was a King! The bishop’s attitude, his bent head, his humble folded hands, his gentleness and meekness, were those of the poorest slave. Yet, he might have been a king. The blood of the world’s mightiest kings ran in his veins. Again, the young Mongol shook his head, utterly dumfounded.
He said again, in a voice loud and protesting: “If every man believed like this, there would be no kings, no generals, no rulers, no wars, no conquests!”
The bishop lifted his head, and he smiled, and it seemed to Temujin that the room was flooded with light.
“True,” he said, softly, “there would be none of these things!”
All at once Temujin was possessed by a veritable fury of impatience.
“Thy faith would emasculate the strength of men! it would reduce the world to a maudlin house of slaves! It would rob man of his greatest joy: war and glory! It would take the beard from the face of manhood, destroy the roughness in its voice, set men to spinning and plowing, and break down the walls of the strong cities! What could survive of joy and jubilation and courage, in such a congregation of eunuchs?”
The bishop looked at him, and could not look away. For Temujin’s face was full of fire and power, full of savage splendor and violence. The very air vibrated about him; the very walls resounded with his voice. And the others looked at him, and suddenly Taliph felt that his own limbs were soft and weak, his own body without manhood, his own loins without potency. And Toghrul Khan thought, with thin and acrid hatred: I am an old man, accursed be I, and accursed be he! But the lady of the litter breathed heavily, and with lust, and Azara gazed at Temujin with a sort of terror, as though the golden god had begun to exhale lightning and speak in thunder.
The bishop spoke, gently and with sorrow:
“My son, what dost thou believe?”
Temujin laughed aloud, exultantly, contemptuously. He lifted his clenched fist.
“In myself, and what I can do! I believe in force and strength, in power and conquest! In the stupidity of men, in their hatred and their lust, their inability to think! I believe that they were created for such as I to conquer, and that in their conquest they feel a voluptuous surrender, and an adoration for their conqueror! Only he who is strong can lead other men! Only he who can wield the sword is worthy of worshippers! Men deserve a god, but he must be a god of power, not one who doth go about mewling like a new-born lamb.”
The bishop said painfully, paling, his face shrinking:
“And thou hast no regard for the souls of men?”
Temujin shouted. “What souls? I have regard for the strong man’s body, for his arm and his fearlessness. But beyond that, there is nothing.”
And then the bishop asked with increased painfulness:
“What dost thou want, my son?”
Temujin smiled, and his smile was terrible.
“The world!”
At this, Taliph covered his mouth with his hand, and behind it he smiled. Toghrul Khan sighed, inclined his head, like an old father of obstreperous sons, whose opinions he must repudiate. The lady of the litter laughed lightly. But Azara gazed at Temujin with her heart in her eyes, again hearing only his voice.
And the bishop gazed at him, also, white sorrow on his face, and a sort of horrified understanding, the contemplation of which petrified him. He was like one who had been confronted with an appalling vision, too dreadful for the sight of men. He closed his eyes. He shivered. He spoke, his eyes still closed:
“And thou shalt have it! I have seen a vision, and before it, I am stricken down, and cry out to God: ‘Why hast Thou willed this thing? Why hast Thou so afflicted Thy children?’ I see the earth desolated and laid waste. I see the walls of cities crumbling, and the cities enveloped in flame. All the world is full of lamentation and despair and ruin, and the riding of enormous dark hordes. And beyond these hordes come others, endlessly, eternally, their horses shod with death, their swords sheathed in fire. On they come, over the rim of the world, spewed up by the centuries, riding forever, until the last man goeth down in agony, and never riseth again!”
He lifted his hands, and in a voice full of terror and anguish, he cried:
“Why hast thou done this thing, O Lord? Why hast thou created these monsters out of the womb of darkness, and flung them upon the fair and helpless earth? Why hast thou let them ride over our hearts?”
Only his voice filled the room. The servants in the archways looked at the old man, unable to move. And Taliph stared at the bishop as at a madman, and Toghrul Khan smiled a pale and vitriolic smile, and shook with silent mirth. But Temujin, scowling blackly, stared at the bishop, biting his lip, believing that he was being ridiculed, and that momentarily the old man would burst into mocking laughter, in which all would join.
Then the old bishop dropped his hands slowly. His white and deathlike face became gray with weariness and suffering. He dropped his head on his breast. He seemed to be listening.
He began to speak again, his voice low and weak, but slowly gathering strength.
“I hear Thy voice, O Lamb of God! Faintly, I hear it! But it is becoming stronger, and le! I hear Thy words! For Thou sayest that the earth is Thine, until all eternity, though redmawed tigers come out of the centuries, to ravage and tear and kill, and leave their imprints on the souls of men! And Thou sayest that always, until the end of time, the Earth is Thine. Eternally, forever, Thou sayest that they shall not conquer!”
Now his voice was strong, ringing like a trumpet. He lifted his head. His face was full of mysterious and unearthly joy, and his eyes blazed like the sun.
“For the Earth is the Lord’s! The Earth is the Lord’s! Forever and ever, the Earth is the Lord’s!”
Some mystical strength seemed to lift him, to stand him upon his feet. He lifted his arms. He seemed to listen to a terrible Voice, coming out of the tumbling chaos of space and time.
He turned, and before any one could move, he had left the room, like a ghost, like a specter, like some visitation. And they watched him go, not moving, staring after him, disbelieving.
The curtain dropped behind him. And then, one by one they looked at each other. Taliph began to smile. He laughed aloud. He pointed a delicate finger at Temujin.
“What thou hast done to our saintly Christian prince, Temujin! Thou red-mawed tiger! But just at present, there is only sauce upon thy chin, and an idiot look in thine eye!”
His lady began to laugh. Toghrul Khan smiled viciously. He shook his head. But Azara did not smile nor laugh. Her head had fallen upon her breast. Then she stood up, and her brother’s wife, angry, stood also. Azara turned away. She left the room, and the lady was forced to follow her. The men watched them go. And after they had gone, Taliph laughed again, uproariously.
Temujin glared. He felt that in some way he had been made a fool of, and he lusted for vengeance. But when he saw that Taliph was not malicious, but only full of pure enjoyment, and that Toghrul Khan was smiling forgivingly, his rage subsided.
He began to laugh, at first surlily, and finally, with full appreciation and pleasure.
Chapter 17
But when he returned to his apartments, and found his companions sleeping the early and healthy sleep of the steppe-dweller, he was no longer amused.
“I have been insulted by a mean priest!” he said aloud. He dropped the curtains that hid the bedchamber of Chepe Noyon and Kasar, and went to his own bedroom. He sat down on his couch, and resting his hands on his knees, supported his chin, and glowered before him. The immense amount of wine he had consumed made a singing in his ears like a thousand gnats. B
ut he was not jubilant and excited as he usually was when he had drunk too much.
Then he had forgotten the bishop. He could think only of Azara, and suddenly all his body was pervaded with an anguished desire for her. Unable to sit still now, he stood up and paced up and down the room with rapid and feverish steps. He could not understand himself. He had desired women before, but never like this, with a sort of terror and feeling of doom, of agony and tenderness and love. Her face, pale with fear and suffering, stood before him. He could see it, though he closed his eyes, and clenched his fists convulsively. “What aileth me?” he asked himself aloud, as though frightened. “This is only a beautiful woman, after all!”
But then he knew again that no other woman would be to him as Azara was. She seemed to be flesh of his flesh, part of his breath and his heart. Her thoughts of him appeared to enter the room and mingle with his, like living exhalations.
He had come to the palace. But he was no nearer Azara than before. The bride of the Caliph of Bokhara was being guarded like the most precious treasure, in order that she be delivered up to her lord like a pure and unsullied jewel. He realized, with an exclamation of mingled wrath and despair, that he did not know what to do next. But see her he must, though he had to strike down every guard in the palace.
He forced himself to sit down. “This is madness,” he groaned. To attempt to see her, to force himself past her guardians, would be to make a mortal enemy of Toghrul Khan, and the mighty Caliph. There would be no spot on earth where he could hide from them, and he would bring ruin down upon his people. All that he had gained, at such cost of blood and death and fortitude and torment, would be lost.
But somehow he could only look at the cost, and not feel it in his mind. In his terrific effort to realize it, to pierce through the numbness in his brain, he seized his head in his hand and feverishly ran his fingers through his thick red hair. He rolled his head from side to side. He sweated. He gasped. But still nothing mattered but Azara. The world was well lost for her.
But, strangely, he could not make himself completely believe this, either. Nothing mattered, however, but the consuming passion and mournful desire for her which now convulsed him. His thoughts ran out to her like winged messengers of fire. His whole flesh trembled, was bathed in cold dew. He recalled to himself that he had always done as he wished, and evaded the cost later.
Once Kurelen had said: “Bite off more than thou canst chew, and then chew it.” All at once he laughed a little, but the laugh was like a groan.
Should he finally, by some miracle, see her, what could he do after the brief assauging of his passion in the cool waters? How could he rescue her from the arms and harem of the old Caliph?
“I shall not think of that, yet,” he said, still speaking aloud. He got up and tore off the white silken finery of Toghrul Khan. He flung it from him with a grimace. He dressed himself in the only other garment he had brought with him, a loose tunic of red-and-white striped linen. He pulled on his deerskin boots. He thrust his dagger through his belt, and took up his saber. He ran his finger delicately along its edge. In the mingled moonlight and lamplight of his bedroom, the broad curved blade glimmered like pale lightning. He flung his cloak over his shoulders, pulled the hood over his head. From its dark depths his eyes shone like those of a wild and ravenous beast’s.
Then he stopped, motionless, like a statue, all his savage mind concentrated on a faint sound. He heard it again, the soft slithering of muted footsteps. He tore aside the draperies. A huge eunuch stood before him, and when he saw the young Mongol, he bowed deeply. He put his finger to his lips.
“Come with me, my lord,” he whispered.
Temujin regarded him piercingly. “Who hath sent thee? Where art thou to take me?” he asked in a low and imperious voice.
But the eunuch merely bowed again, and whispered: “Come with me.”
Temujin hesitated, biting his lip. He scowled forbiddingly at the eunuch. But the man’s expression, faintly seen in the dimness, was amiable, though somewhat frightened. He kept glancing over his shoulder. Temujin felt for the dagger on his belt. He lifted his saber from the bed, and gripped it tightly in his hand.
His heart was beating wildly. Had Azara sent for him? There could be no other explanation. Suddenly every pulse in his body was singing, every vein trembling with a savage joy. He was incredulous, however. She would not do this thing, however she desired him. It was not in her to do this thing.
“Let us go,” he said abruptly. The eunuch reached out and quenched the lamp. Now only pale bright moonlight filled the rooms. Temujin could hear the deep breathing of his sleeping companions.
He followed the eunuch out into the long dark corridor. No one was about. This section of the palace was quiet and sleeping. But at the far end of the corridor a eunuch was leaning on his long saber, and drowsing, his head bent. Again, Temujin’s guide fearfully put a finger to his lip, and tiptoed ahead. Temujin followed, holding his saber tightly. The eunuch pushed aside a heavy crimson curtain, and Temujin found himself in a tiny private court, filled with tremendous vases of flowers. The moonlight flooded the court, and the warm night wind dried the sweat on Temujin’s face. The air was pervaded with a thousand flower scents, and he could hear the musical and drowsy twinkling of the distant fountains. Beyond the courts were the gardens, dark and still, though glow-worms flashed their eerie lights continually in the grass.
He followed his guide, the hood pulled far down over his face, his naked saber still in his hand. They walked over the grass, drifting like shadows. Now they rounded a wall, and a flood of yellow lamplight streamed far into the darkness. Toghrul Khan and his son had joined the envoys of the Caliph of Bokhara for a late festivity. Temujin could now hear the tinkling of instruments, the gay muted sound of cymbals, the licentious laughter of dancing women and the hoarse roaring of men. Temujin felt a momentary rage and affront that he had not been invited to join this festivity. The barbarian from the barrens was no fit company for the elegant men from Bokhara, the soft Persian gentlemen of the great city! He ground his teeth. He halted, and stared up at the flooding yellow light.
He felt a tug at his cloak. The eunuch, alarmed, was motioning him to continue. He flung off the man’s hand, his heart beating with outraged fury. Again, the eunuch tugged at him and whispered: “Lord, we must go! If we are found here by the guards, they will run us through at once!”
Temujin gave a last ominous scowl at the light, and followed again. The eunuch approached the end of the low wall, and held up his hand warningly. Soldiers, carrying torches, armed and alert, were pacing up and down near the entrance to the palace. As they passed each other, they challenged, went on. The eunuch, peeping around the wall, watched them intently. Temujin peeped, also. “Only four!” he whispered. “I can attack them, myself.”
Terrified, the eunuch shook his head. “Nay, wait, lord. We must wait. There is no other way.”
An unusually loud burst of laughter and song and music issued from the palace. The great brass doors opened, and several gentlemen came out into the coolness of the night for refreshment. One of them called to the soldiers, jingling coins in his hand. A soldier ran to him, his torch streaming red in the darkness. But the gentleman, with a contemptuous laugh, flung the coins in the air, where the torchlight caught them, glittering. The red light shone on his dark and exquisite Persian face, and on his jewelled turban, jewelled belt and jewelled hands. Now the other soldiers, with laughter, tried to catch the coins before they fell.
It was an auspicious moment, and the eunuch signalled to Temujin. They fled through the shadows, only a few paces from the shouting soldiers and the laughing gentlemen. They reached the safety of a thick copse of rustling trees. There they stopped, panting, listening. But the soldiers had not seen them. They resumed their pacing, carrying their torches, in high good humor. The doors closed again after the Persian gentlemen. The night resumed its close warm heaviness. Temujin was conscious of the thick and slumbrous odors of roses.
> Now they wound their way through the trees, emerged into the gardens where the fountains sang. A nightingale suddenly broke out into lustrous song, filling the night with the purest and most poignant of notes. Another joined him. The moon span over the treetops like a silver wheel, emitting beams of argent light.
Temujin felt a fresh dark coolness on his face. They were descending into a grotto, where water dripped. The odors of tree and flower were overpowering. Here were silence and dampness, and complete darkness. He could hardly see his guide, though he was but a pace ahead.
The eunuch stopped. “I go no farther, lord,” he whispered. “But I shall wait here for thee. Go ten steps more, and then halt.”
Temujin hesitated again. Was this a trap? But why should Toghrul Khan go to such secrecy? There were easier and less involved ways to kill a man. He gripped his saber more tightly, then passing the eunuch he walked slowly, counting to ten paces. Then he stopped. He could see nothing but complete darkness, and hear nothing but the sighing of the heavy trees, and the singing of the nightingales, who were filling the night with a thousand aching songs.
He felt a touch on his arm, like the touch of a falling leaf. He started, reached out and seized some one’s arm. But the arm was soft and covered with a silken veil, and he knew he held a woman. He pulled her to him roughly. He caught her in his arms. “Azara!” he whispered. His body swelled as though his blood had become hot and his veins could no longer hold it.
He heard a soft laugh, felt veiled lips touch his own. It was a lewd laugh, and the breath caught. He felt the pressure of a woman’s firm soft breast against his own, the pressure of desirous limbs bending against his thighs. His nostrils were full of the scent of a woman’s flesh, perfumed and warm. But he knew now that it was not Azara, but only the lady of the litter.
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