Temujin had sent no message, but this did not prevent Kurelen from lying jovially. “Certainly. He wished me to tell thee that he is well pleased with the young men thou hast sent him.”
Now Jamuga was intensely interested. “Are they happy, these young men of mine?”
Kurelen could answer with truth, though he knew the truth would not overly please Jamuga: “They seem to be very—enthusiastic. They soon learn to be excellent soldiers. Temujin hath remarked, with apparent surprise, that they take readily to war.”
Jamuga sighed. “I was afraid of that.”
“Thou dost remember, Jamuga, that I told thee that war is in the nature of men!”
“But not here!” cried Jamuga, passionately. “Here, they are content!”
Kurelen nodded gravely. “I believe thee. But perhaps thou hast here something that Temujin hath not. That is why I have come: to see for myself what thou hast.”
But Jamuga eyed him with pale suspicion. “Art thou not sure that Temujin hath sent thee to spy on me?” Instantly, he was remorseful. But Kurelen was not offended.
“Nay, thou doubter, I have come for mine own curiosity.”
He continued to eat. ‘Temujin hath done well. His dream of a confederacy of all the tribes is within realization. That is why I fear for the enmity of Toghrul Khan, that old prayer-singing vulture. I should not be surprised if open war is not soon declared between them. But no: it is not Toghrul Khan’s way to be open at any time. I suspect that we shall soon experience treachery.”
“I have done well, too,” replied Jamuga. “Many of the clans hereabouts have joined me. Peaceful and friendly people, content with our way of life.”
Again, Kurelen nodded. Now he could speak with truth. “Temujin is pleased with thee for this. Thou hast done good work, in this country. But now, thou canst show me thy secret.”
It was sunset. The two men, the old and the young, rode through the city of tents, towards the river and the pastures and the fields of grain. Kurelen looked about him, keenly. The people seemed gentle yet proud, with calm faces and amiable eyes. Every one busy, coming and going, without haste, but intent. The herds were coming in from pasture. The women were going out with pails, followed by the young and playing children. Campfires were beginning to burn high. Kurelen heard the singing of young girls, the laughter of young men. He was conscious of contentment and peace and strong purpose. When the people greeted Jamuga, it was with mingled pride and love, and the respect one gives honestly. It was evident that their salutes to the khan came from their hearts, without servility or fear. And Jamuga returned their salutes with grave dignity, sometimes calling a man or child by name, and stopping to exchange a word.
Kurelen was impressed by the lack of turbulent or violent faces, by the absence of discordant and angry voices, and furious cries. Children were not dispatched with blows, nor did the women cast sullen glances at the men. Even the dogs trotted about playfully, and their barking was jovial. A man stroked the neck of an ox; a woman leaned against the side of a mare, talking to her affectionately. Other women gossiped near a campfire, the old women with the young, without surliness.
This is a different people, thought Kurelen, with incredulous wonder. This is a race I have never encountered before.
They came to the river. The sun had fallen behind the distant purple ridges. The water was the color of saffron, in which the low violet hills were reflected. The east was already the hue of hyacinths, cool and remote. But the west was a vivid scarlet, in which flakes of fire drifted. In the zenith, golden and vast, trembled the sickle of a new moon. Near by, along the river, moved and shook the yellow grain. Over everything stood a calm peace and silence, full of fruitfulness, and the tranquillity of eternity.
Jamuga looked at the saffron river, then at the hills, then the sky. His face glowed with the bright golden light. His eyes were full of rest. He seemed to have forgotten Kurelen, and to be absorbed in thoughts as large and calm as the landscape. Behind them was the city of black tents, interspaced with the red campfires.
Kurelen sat on his horse in silence, breathing in the universal peace. He looked at Jamuga, sitting so upright and straight on his narrow gray mare, and he thought that this was a new Jamuga, imbued with dignity and quiet splendor. A sudden sense of loneliness and nostalgia descended on the old cripple, and all at once he felt small and dark and mean, like a reptile from another and more violent world, intruding furtively on a planet floating in blue still heavens.
“What is thy secret, Jamuga?” he asked, in a voice of new gentleness.
Jamuga did not answer for a moment, and then he turned his head, smiling, his eyes full of the radiance of the skies.
“It is no secret,” he answered. “Peace and justice and mercy and reason are simple things. Here, they are not a theory; they are a way of life.
“Here, every man hath dignity. None is a slave, but a person of respect. If he is virtuous, brave and kind, he doth receive honor. Rapacity is a crime, punished severely. Treachery and meanness, cruelty and selfishness, are wanton things, enemies of a good society. Violence is a shameful sin committed against all the people, and punished by ostracism.
“No man worketh constantly, but only long enough to tend his own herds, his own plot of ground. We have gaiety, and many amusements: races, contests of strength and agility, contests of skill with the bow and the staff. We have contests to produce the best horses and the best sheep and cattle. Every man can read, and story-tellers are in much demand. If a man lacketh anything, his neighbor doth hasten to supply it. There is no rank, save in virtue and accomplishments and service. We like each other. Yet, we are not weak. We are strong with our dignity, and our health, and the knowledge that we are important to each other.”
He smiled, with a sort of joy.
“Here, I stress the relationship of man with man, and of man with the earth. The priests tell them that man hath a destiny, one with God and the future. What is to come is a mystery, but we are part of it. We are one with the past, but we are one with tomorrow, and who knoweth but that the morrow is ours, also? Life is a river, coming from yesterday into today, and into the ages to come, and we are that river of life, reflecting the hills and the skies of today’s sun, but unchanged in ourselves, and eternal. Our people feel that though the heated moment is theirs, eternity is also theirs. We have an adventure, but it is an adventure in God and the nature of man and the earth. They experience a mysterious joy, as vast as time, and boundless as the heavens. When they die, they say to those they are leaving: ‘Until tomorrow!’ And they know that tomorrow cometh, and know no grief.”
He was silent. He looked at Kurelen with a transfigured face, but Kurelen knew that he did not see him, but some unearthly scene.
“We have a vision,” he said. “A vision of God, without which man must perish, and leave no trace behind.”
Kurelen could not speak. He heard, but was incredulous. He told himself that he was hearing mad words from the lips of a madman. A vision of God! What insanity was this! A revelation of eternity, in which everything changed, except God and man, which were eternal, and one together! It was not to be understood. It was a violation of reality, which was exigent and bloody, standing in a real today.
And yet, the dark old cripple could not speak. He saw, suddenly, with a blinding clarity, what this could mean, this awareness of God, this awareness of His imminence and presence. For a long time, he stood in this clarity, and it seemed to him that his body and his soul were dissolved in it, and he was aware of a joy and a peace that were almost annihilating. Self was gone, and he floated in an element lighted with rapture, in which fear had vanished, and man’s stature was limitless, his vision piercing eternities.
He shook his head, and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he had the sensation that he had fallen from great and radiant heights, into a dark abyss, where terrible things lurked and obscene figures moved wantonly. Some of that darkness had drifted over Jamuga’s face.
“I can u
nderstand, now,” he said, in a low voice, “why my young men take so easily to war and violence, with Temujin. They have lost the vision. They have forgotten the adventure.”
When Kurelen returned to Temujin, and was asked by his nephew how Jamuga was faring, his first impulse was to say: “I have come from another world, and because of what I have seen, this world of ours is disjointed and disgusting, and vicious and petty.”
But instead, with an eye to Jamuga’s peace, he said: “Jamuga is doing well, and cultivating in his people love and loyalty to thee.”
He no longer feared for Jamuga. For he knew that Jamuga was shielded against tragedy and misfortune. Or, at least, he hoped so.
Chapter 11
Kurelen, Chepe Noyon and Subodai were the tutors of Temujin’s sons. The children must learn all the lore which these three men had gathered. They must learn to draw the strange characters of the Cathayans, and must read much of the Golden Emperors of Cathay, the sons of heaven.
Juchi was Kurelen’s pupil, a moody and rebellious child, with surly eyes and a low guttural voice, which he used rarely. Kurelen was not overly fond of the boy, but he taught him as well as he could, and had occasion to be proud of him. For Juchi learned easily, and had hard logic. From childhood, he hated his father, Temujin, and was bitterly envious of any slight privilege of his brothers. He was Bortei’s favorite, as he was Kasar’s.
Temujin was absent from his ordu very often. The king on horseback rode through his vast new domains, stopping briefly to converse with his tarkhans, and give commands. Everywhere his fierce eye darted, and everywhere, to his satisfaction, he saw order. There was personal liberty no longer for any man. There was only obedience, swift, slavish and unquestioning. But there were discipline and loyalty, and these were the things he desired. Ferocious, exigent, inexorable and turbulent of nature, he was regarded with superstitious terror and awe by his clans, the new confederacy of the Gobi.
Over the barrens he cast his mighty figure, and to the very feet of Toghrul Khan’s people, the Karait Turks, he flung his shadow. Between him and Toghrul Khan there was voluble peace, and the frequent exchange of affectionate letters and gifts. But Toghrul Khan looked over the steppes and the desert and barrens, and he knew his enemy. The two peoples were facing each other across the tremendous spaces, like two armies ready for combat.
Toghrul Khan called all his sons to him, and also his favorite, Taliph. He looked at them closely for a long time, pursing up his shrivelled old lips and wrinkling his sunken ancient eyes.
“What shall we do about Temujin, that green-eyed dog of a Mongol?” he asked.
“Declare war on him, and destroy him at once!” exclaimed one of his sons.
“Demand his immediate obedience and subordination,” said another.
The others cried out, vehemently and contemptuously. Who was this illiterate cur who had suddenly become a menace?
But Taliph grimaced. He said: “We have let him become too strong. Because the merchants and the traders loved their profits, we have encouraged him, loudly admired him, made him rich, let him go his way. Now the dog which served us and which we condescendingly admired and petted, hath become a wolf, and he is showing his teeth. It is our own fault.”
Toghrul Khan turned to him. He took no one’s advice but Taliph’s.
“What shall we do?” he asked.
Taliph considered. “To declare open war on him would be very bad. We must undermine him. destroy his influence. Or at least, limit it. He must be shown, immediately, that he hath gone far enough. A gentle threat, perhaps.”
Toghrul Khan sniffled. “Threats! Hast thou forgotten him, Taliph? Threats are spurs to such animals.”
Taliph spread out his hands elegantly. “Then undermine him. Send secret emissaries to his clans. Seek the co-operation of his tarkhans and noyon. This will take a long time. But treachery is much better than open warfare, which may—” and he paused significantly, “profit us nothing.
“The Merkit hate him, though he hath absorbed many of their people. The Naiman hate him also, though he hath also absorbed much of them. The Taijiut would rejoice in a chance to betray him. The Tatars have no love for him. Send emissaries to them.
“I, myself, offer my services. I shall go to the more intelligent tarkhans. Send my brothers to the lesser. This will all take a long time, and a difficult one. But it is the best way.”
He added: “Sow discontent, dislike and suspicion among the clans. Thus will we disintegrate them, destroy the unity he hath built up. And when that is destroyed, he will be a fugitive, and helpless.”
Toghrul Khan’s face became a mask of ancient evil. “How I should rejoice in having him, brought before me, in chains!” He pondered. “This is a dangerous and difficult business, and will require all our cleverness and subtlety. What fools we were! We hired him to protect us, and now we must protect ourselves against his growing menace. Thou art right, Taliph. I shall take thine advice.”
Another thought made him uneasy. “Among our own people there are those who admire and love him. Upon my death; the heritage of my sons will be scattered, unless he is overcome. We must act! The dog must die.”
Taliph had another hopeful thought to combat this. “East of Lake Baikul, the people are already arming against his western confederacy. Send messengers to them at once! They will join us against him. They have always been our enemy, and now they can be induced to become our ally. Hah! The more I think of it, the easier it doth seem! I am afraid we have conferred too much importance on our Mongol brother.”
So, Toghrul Khan took his clever son’s advice. The emissaries rode forth, secretly, to those unconquered among the Merkit, the Tatars and the Naiman and Taijiut, and others. They found these very easy to convince. But the task was not so easy among the clans of the confederacy, who were passionately loyal to Temujin. In fact, the emissaries had to be exceedingly careful, loudly admiring the loyalty and devotion to Temujin, and declaring they came only as visitors, to see what had been done.
Nevertheless, among many of the clans they were able to sow distrust and doubt and uneasiness.
The people east of Lake Baikul were only too eager. It took but a short time to secure them as allies.
To Taliph, Toghrul Khan left the Naiman, the more civilized of the peoples of the Gobi.
Taliph was well informed about Jamuga Sechen, through spies. And Jamuga was one of the first tarkhans he visited.
Chapter 12
When the rich and resplendent caravan halted at the Naiman camp, Jamuga did not at first recognize his distinguished visitor. He had seen Taliph only once, years before. But his memories of an amiable and gracious prince had been pleasant.
He apologized for the simplicity and austerity of his camp, but Taliph waved away his apologies with an elegant hand.
“I assure thee, Jamuga Sechen, that I am a man of inherently simple tastes. Thou dost smile. But it is so.”
His good manners, his affable smiles, his aristocratic gestures, won Jamuga, whose experience among gentlemen had been little. Taliph admired Jamuga’s treasures. And indeed he was surprised at their good taste. He saw that Jamuga had delicacy and refinement. Best of all, he discerned that Jamuga was honest and clear as water, without deviousness or craft. He was greatly encouraged. No one was so easy to deceive as such men.
“I have not travelled much over the steppes,” he said, frankly. “This is a rare surprise and delight, to find a civilized man among savages and barbarians.” He spoke cunningly, aware that such praise was as honey and rich wine to Jamuga, whom he well suspected of being vain and conceited by nature, as were most diffident and silent men, and he knew that such men loved nothing more than being treated as equals by those they secretly envied and admired.
He told his host that he was on the way to Bokhara. Jamuga was charmed by the open democracy of so great a prince. His vanity was soothed. Taliph put on no airs. He laughed and conversed as to an equal in birth and position. Jamuga, always sensitive to condesc
ension, found nothing to suspect. His heart opened. He talked with eagerness and pleasure, feeling that some old hard lock had been removed from his tongue. And like most men of his kind, once the lock had been removed he spoke of much which more experienced men would have kept silent.
That night they sat by Jamuga’s fire, eating and drinking. Yesi was surprised to hear Jamuga’s frequent and open laughter. She saw, too, that her husband, who was not overly fond of wine, drank a great deal. For some reason, she was uneasy, with the uneasiness of the innocent and inexperienced woman who suspects some danger.
She wished to stay near Jamuga, fearful, in her timidity, that if she were not there he might be indiscreet, though what he would be indiscreet about she did not know. But she did not like Taliph, and something rebelled in her quiet heart when his eye touched her as though she were a dog or other animal, and not a human being. When she served him, he would impatiently watch her, and then motion, her aside. Her presence irritated him. It was evident that he thought her a slave-woman of less importance than a fly.
Her slender body was swelling again with child, and her face was pale with strain and weariness. But she resolutely sat in the dim background, her eyes gleaming feverishly in the light of the fire, her thin hands clasped rigidly on her knees. She listened with painful attention, moistening her lips, which were colorless with a nameless fear.
She could not look away from Taliph, with his narrow elegant face and subtle eyes and gay smile. He wore a red fez, which gave him a crafty and sinister look. His blouse was of the finest white silk, and about his neck hung a golden chain. His trousers were scarlet, and at his belt there was a jewelled dagger. He was highly perfumed, and at intervals he touched his long thin nose with a scented kerchief. When he moved his feet, his gemmed boots, of soft red leather, caught the light and sparkled. Jamuga, sitting beside him, in his blue-and-white-striped woolen coat, his trousers thrust into crude deerskin boots, was as simple and elemental as the earth. For he wore no jewels, and his hands were stained with soil. But his head rose on his throat, proud and quiet, and his eyes were blue as hyacinths in the firelight.
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