The day passed. The restless warriors hunted for near-by game. They offered Jamuga food and wine. But he looked at them unseeingly. Hour after hour wheeled by, and he sat, unmoving, his eyes glazed and fixed, his under lip fallen, his chest hardly moving. The warriors played games of chance about him, and laughed and sang hoarsely. But he did not hear them, and at last, they were silent with him, superstitiously afraid.
The night came. The warriors slept. One kept awake, to guard Jamuga. But still he did not move. Still he sat like a man who had died in a sitting posture. He did not lie down. He did not utter a single word, or even a sigh. When the dawn came, it threw its brilliant light on his cold and sunken face.
The warriors marvelled that he still lived. One or two, less ferocious than the others, were moved to an alien pity. Never had they seen such despair. They hoped he would begin to wail, or weep. Thus, they would have relief.
The whole day passed, and again the night, and still Jamuga waited, like an image. No one could guess if he were awake or sleeping or unconscious, or if he thought anything at all. When the dawn came again, those who had pitied him felt a thrill of disappointment that he was still alive.
Now they began to expect the return of their general and their brother warriors. One or two took places on a high piece of land, and gazed towards the east. In their excitement and speculation, they forgot Jamuga, and their fear and sullen pity. They complained again, because they had been left behind, and some of them mocked the others, prophesying that they would receive only the old hags and the leavings of the victorious warriors. They discussed the possibilities of the beauty of the Naiman women. They made coarse and obscene jokes. One man complained that his wives resembled donkeys; he had hoped that he might get a handsome girl or two from the Naiman.
“I am certain that thou wilt get another donkey,” mocked one of his companions.
To relieve their tedium, they wrestled and had bouts with their sabers. Now a note of real quarrelling was heard in their voices. Their restlessness grew. They lost their fear of Jamuga. Loudly, in his presence, they mocked him, prophesied his fate.
“If his wife is beautiful, she will sleep with our lord, and will forget this pallid shadow,” said one. “She will breed real sons, instead of goats.”
But still Jamuga heard nothing, and saw nothing. The bellowed laughter did not move him. Hourly, his features sank, and he took on more and more the aspect of a corpse.
And then, at sunset on the third day, a watcher shouted exultantly. The warriors were returning. The watcher reported that behind them trundled a vast number of yurts, and that there was a great number of horses and a large herd. His companions joined them. They shouted and stamped with glee.
They did not hear Jamuga’s faint thrilling cry. They did not see him rise, and his legs tottering, lean heavily against the side of the white cliff which had sheltered them from the incessant wind. His ghastly and haggard face was convulsed; his cracked lips worked. He gasped hoarsely; his emaciated fingers gripped the crumbling stone, and he swayed.
Subodai rode ahead of the immense congregation of victorious warriors, yurts, herds and horses. And as he rode, his head was dropped, and he seemed to move in a mournful bemusement. From the yurts behind him there came a constant howl of wailing and weeping.
He glanced up, as he approached the rise of ground, and he saw Jamuga. He bit his lip. He spurred his horse, then arriving at the rise, he sprang down to the ground, and ran forward. The warriors rushed forward, shouting, to join those who were returning. In the confusion, Subodai approached Jamuga, glanced swiftly and compassionately at him, and put his arm about his shoulders.
Jamuga drew a deep and shuddering breath. He clutched his friend desperately, and in a voice full of broken anguish, he cried: “My wife? My children?”
Subodai closed his eyes; he could not endure the sight of that face.
“Be comforted,” he said, gently. “They are not here.”
Jamuga collapsed against him; his body shook with his sobs. From his breast there came a long groan, as though his heart was breaking. Subodai tightened his arm about him, and his beautiful face became dark and grim, as though with some deep anger.
“Thou art ill,” he said, compassionately. “Come; thou must lie down in one of the yurts.”
Jamuga shook his head. His exhaustion increased, so that Subodai was compelled to support the whole weight of his body.
“Then, thou shalt ride beside me.”
His plan was that Jamuga should ride at the head of the caravan, in order that he would hear very little of the constant lamentation from the yurts. Jamuga understood him, and again he shook his head.
“I shall ride behind,” he murmured faintly. “I am guilty of this. I must fill mine ears with the cries of those I have so frightfully wronged.”
Subodai’s next fear was that Jamuga would die before he could be delivered to Temujin. He forced his own flask of wine against Jamuga’s lips. Jamuga automatically swallowed. But he looked beyond Subodai with his agonized eyes, and was aware of nothing but the yurts and the sorrowful wailing.
Half-dragging, half-carrying, the stricken man, Subodai led him to a horse, and helped him climb upon it. Jamuga sat there, bent forward, in a dream of numb anguish. Subodai sprang up on his stallion, and took the reins of Jamuga’s horse in his hand. His anxiety became acute. At all costs, he must arouse him.
“Thy people fought and died bravely,” he said. “So well did they fight that I lost a goodly number of my best men.”
Jamuga looked at him. “That is no joy to me,” he said faintly.
The huge caravan began to move.
Jamuga, huddled in his saddle, heard nothing, was aware of nothing, but the wailing of the women and children, trundling behind him in the yurts.
And Subodai, riding beside him, holding the reins of his horse, looked ahead, bitterly and somberly.
“I live only to obey. Only to obey,” he said to himself, over and over, in a hypnotic litany, as though he was trying to dim the sound of his clamorous thoughts.
Chapter 22
An officer ran to Temujin’s huge yurt, in the dawn.
“Subodai is approaching!”
Temujin, who had been sleeping, was instantly awake. He buckled on his coat and pulled on his boots. He went out into the lucent morning light, his head uncovered, and his red hair was like a fire, a lion’s mane on his shoulders. The caravan could be plainly seen on the flank of a scarlet hill. Temujin, shading his eyes, watched it for a long time. Then he returned to his yurt and sat down on his couch.
He did not stir, staring unseeingly before him. But a hard purple vein pulsed violently in his forehead, like a thin writhing snake.
After a long time, the flap of his yurt opened, and Subodai entered, pale and calm. He saluted, stood stiffly before his khan.
“I have returned,” he said quietly. “I have conquered the Naiman, and obeyed thine orders. I have brought Jamuga Sechen as prisoner.”
“Thou hast done well,” replied Temujin mechanically, after a pause. Then he was silent again, staring at Subodai.
Subodai spoke: “Jamuga Sechen is a dying man. I have had him carried to my yurt, for a rest he doth sorely need. But he will not sleep.”
Temujin rose, and turned his back upon Subodai.
“Let him rest,” he muttered. “But at noon, bring him to me.”
Subodai saluted again, and went towards the flap. He had reached the flap when he heard Temujin call him. He turned slowly. Temujin fixed his gaze upon him without speaking, and his look was strange.
“My lord?” said Subodai, composedly.
But Temujin merely stared at him, and his strange look became more intense. Then he made an abrupt gesture.
“Nothing. It is evident thou art weary, Subodai. Seek rest, thyself, until thou dost bring Jamuga to me.”
Subodai departed. There was a cold fine sweat upon his forehead. And once more he resumed his litany: “I must obey!”
&n
bsp; He went to his yurt. The camp was in the wildest excitement, and full of jubilation. Many warriors of distant clans had arrived in Subodai’s absence. The camp was thronged with strangers. But he passed among them, not looking at them. When he entered his yurt, Jamuga was lying prostrate on his couch, and one of Subodai’s women was washing his hands and face. Jamuga submitted; he seemed not to be conscious of his surroundings or of the woman. But when Subodai stood beside him, life came back to his dying eyes, and he smiled faintly, his hand moving towards his friend. Subodai took that fumbling hand and held it strongly in his.
“The end of the journey is in sight,” he said, trying to smile. “Be of courage. Thou wast ever a valiant man.”
Jamuga tried to speak, but his last strength was gone. A sudden hope rose in Subodai that he might expire before the ordeal.
“It is not thee I pity,” he said.
Jamuga closed his eyes; he either fainted or slept. Subodai did not know. After a long time, he gently released Jamuga’s hand, and laid it down. It lay there, relaxed and open, as if dead. Subodai continued to stand by the couch, and he sighed deeply, at intervals.
Some one was entering the yurt. It was Chepe Noyon, alert and eager. But when he saw Jamuga, he was silent, and a curious gleam passed over his eyes.
At last he whispered to Subodai: “I am sorry. Thou shouldst have slain him mercifully.”
Subodai turned his heroic head, and answered: “I could only obey.”
Despite his compassion, Chepe Noyon smiled involuntarily at Subodai, with a kind of mockery and wonder. “Art thou a fool?” he asked. “Ofttimes, I have asked myself this, but still, I do not know the answer.”
Subodai was silent. He stood, gazing down at Jamuga.
Some one else was entering. It was Kasar, avid and uncouth. “Ha!” he snorted, seeing Jamuga. “So thou hast brought the traitor safely to his judgment, Subodai! I hope only that his punishment is in proportion to his crime.” He looked at Jamuga venomously, all his old hatred and jealousy black on his simple broad face. He was filled with exultant satisfaction.
Chepe Noyon was about to reply with his customary jocular contempt, when he was compelled to pause, in amazement, his mouth dropping open. For an astounding transformation had taken place in Subodai. All his calm was gone, all his statuelike composure. He was a man aflame. His blue eyes blazed like lightning, and his teeth flashed between his lips. He seemed to bound towards Kasar. He seized the heavy shortish man by the throat, and shook him violently. His thumbs pressed into his neck, and he uttered savage and guttural sounds. Kasar struggled to free himself; his eyes opened and glared in his terror. His lips swelled. His hands tore at the choking fingers on his throat. He staggered. Subodai forced him to his knees, and increased the pressure on the other’s throat. Kasar turned his head from side to side. His face became purple, and his black tongue appeared between his lips, and he uttered strangled brutish whimpers. His eyes rolled up; his chest arched out in his desperate attempts to gain a single life-saving breath.
Chepe Noyon watched. He smiled with bright viciousness, his nostrils widening. He peered forward, in order to see the better in the half-gloom of the yurt. Then he spoke, conversationally:
“I would not kill him, Subodai, though I regret to give thee this advice. Temujin would not like it at all.”
But Subodai seemed oblivious to this advice. His handsome face was black with an awful rage. He seemed absorbed in some ghastly and terrible enchantment. The animal-like sounds continued to bubble from his throat. He bent over Kasar. His thumbs were sunken deep in the other’s flesh. He swung Kasar from side to side, bending him backwards. A thin line of bloody foam appeared on Kasar’s blackening lips. Now the pupils of his eyes could not be seen, and only the whites showed, glaucous and threaded with scarlet.
Chepe Noyon seized his arms. “I love thee too well to see thee murdered,” he said calmly. Then he took Subodai by his own throat, and tightened a steely grip upon it. But he might have held a man under a spell. Subodai was not even aware of him. He was laughing deeply, with a mad sound. Then, quite casually, Chepe Noyon bent down and fastened his teeth in Subodai’s hands. His teeth sank into the other’s tendons, deeper and deeper. He did not relax his grip until he felt Subodai’s hands release Kasar. Something heavy rolled against him, and he knew it was the body of Temujin’s brother. Then, smiling, he looked up, and wiped Subodai’s blood from his lips. Kasar lay writhing on the floor, tearing at his tortured throat. He sobbed and gasped, drawing in deep and tormented breaths, with a whistling groan.
But Subodai had collapsed on the couch at the unconscious Jamuga’s feet. He had covered his face with his bleeding hands. But he made no sound.
Chepe Noyon deftly seized Kasar by his arms, and dragged the half-dead man to his feet. “Thou art a dog,” he said amiably. “But thou wert fortunate in not sharing a dog’s fate.”
He observed Kasar’s purple face with pleasure. Then he dragged him to the flap of the yurt and calmly threw him out.
“I never liked him,” he remarked. He began to chuckle.
But Subodai seemed as unconscious as Jamuga.
Chapter 23
At noon, Subodai awakened Jamuga. This was not easy to do, for the wretched man had sunken into a deep stupor. But Subodai rubbed his hands and held wine to his pale lips, and finally he awoke. He came out of his stupor as one coming out of death, slowly and heavily.
“Our lord hath commanded that thou be brought to him now,” said Subodai. He helped Jamuga to put on his coat and boots. Jamuga still did not appear to be wholly conscious. Subodai thought that he had not heard, but after a little, he answered faintly:
“He might have spared me this.”
Subodai was silent, but his smile was gentle and encouraging. He put his arm about Jamuga, and helped the tottering man out of the yurt, and literally lifted him down from the platform. The sun was blindingly brilliant, and the whole yellow and reddish landscape shimmered in its cataracts of light.
Subodai said, simply: “Forgive me.”
Jamuga’s brows drew together in a painful effort at concentration, and he stared at Subodai in bewilderment. Then he said mournfully: “No man can do other than what is in his nature to do.” And he pressed Subodai’s hand feebly.
He gazed about him, blinking in the strong light, and for the first time was aware of what was taking place. Thousands of warriors had arrived, preparing for the campaign against Toghrul Khan. The camp resounded with confusion. The narrow passageways between the yurts were crowded with strange men, armed and fierce and black of face. Subodai was glad of this. Jamuga would take his journey to Temujin’s yurt comparatively unmarked. He tried to hurry Jamuga a little, but Jamuga’s faltering steps could not be hastened. Then Subodai considerately pulled Jamuga’s hood over his face, so that he might not be recognized by the Mongols, who had already forgotten the campaign against the miserable Naiman, and were enthusiastically preparing for the larger struggle.
Jamuga paused. He lifted his hood and said imploringly: “Subodai, let me pause a moment to say farewell to the women of my people.”
Subodai answered sorrowfully: “This hath been forbidden.”
Jamuga sighed; he bent his head and the hood fell over his face. Like a man in a dream, he allowed himself to be led by his friend, and again, sunken in his despair and anguish, he was hardly aware of his own movements.
Subodai had brought him to a halt. He lifted his hood and gazed about him with red-rimmed eyes. He was standing before Temujin’s enormous yurt, and here everything was quiet, save for two stonelike guards on either side.
“I can go no farther with thee, Jamuga,” said Subodai. He hesitated, then forced himself to smile. “Above all things, thou wert famous for thy courage.”
In spite of his suffering, Jamuga smiled ironically. “The lowest animals have courage. Men should have something more,” he said, in his dwindled voice.
Subodai moved aside the flap, and Jamuga bent and entered. He moved w
ith a new strength and composure.
Temujin sat in the dimly lighted yurt, in the center, on his white horseskin, his arms folded across his chest, his head dropped forward. He seemed to be under the influence of some narcotic, for he did not move nor look up as Jamuga entered. And Jamuga stood before him, upright now, all the herioc nobility of his nature shining on his white and emaciated face. Moments passed, and neither of the men spoke or moved. Jamuga’s look of exaltation quickened, until he seemed to throw out a pale and mysterious light.
Then, very slowly, Temujin lifted his eyes, and they were no longer green, but a cloudy gray. He fixed them upon Jamuga’s, and he seemed to contemplate the other in some extraordinary detachment. And Jamuga looked at this man who had so foully wronged him and broken him, and as he did so, life came back to his body with his bitter wrath and sorrow.
Neither spoke. In this intense silence they were aware of nothing but themselves, these men who had loved each other more than anything else in the world, who had slept under one blanket and had sworn the oath of sacred brotherhood. There was something more profound between them than the mere accident of blood or chance. There was complete understanding, a bond of spirit which could never be broken, not even now.
Then Temujin spoke, his lips barely moving to emit the sound of his distant voice: “Jamuga Sechen, thou hast been guilty of treason against me.”
Jamuga stirred, and his own voice answered Temujin, clearly and bitterly and full of torment:
“If that be treachery, I would do it again, and again, unto the end of the world!”
His heart seemed to be dividing in his chest with an unendurable pang, mysterious and not to be understood. All that he had suffered before was as nothing to this suffering, which was inexplicable.
And again they gazed at each other in that intense silence.
Then Jamuga, for the first time, saw that there was some change in his anda. Temujin was more gaunt, more gloomy, more inscrutable than ever. Some misery had given a rigor to his face, a somberness without ferocity to his eyes. Something was torturing him beyond human endurance. His gray lips were bitten and distorted. And Temujin saw all the marks of suffering on Jamuga’s face, all the white exaltation of approaching death in his eyes.
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