Jamuga then heard strange words from this terrible man:
“I would have spared thee this, for the sake of our old oath.”
Jamuga’s lips parted in a deep and trembling sigh. The pain in his heart increased. But he could not speak.
Temujin looked away from him, and his somber gloominess became more marked.
“But thou hast become mine enemy, and I have learned that I must allow no enemy to live. I dare not let him live, if I wish to survive.”
“I was never thine enemy,” replied Jamuga, in a faint clear tone. “Thou knowest this, in thy soul. When we became anda, our hearts were as one, and we communed together in words that only death can obliterate, and mayhap, not even death. Rarely did I agree with thee, and ofttimes we did quarrel and upbraid each other, but thou knowest my loyalty and my love, and that for thee I would have died a thousand deaths, and suffered a thousand wounds.”
His voice broke. Tears ran over his face. Temujin moved, as though tormented. He covered his eyes with his hand, to shut out the sight of Jamuga.
“Nevertheless,” he muttered, “thou didst, as ever, go thine own way, and I received a mortal wrong from the man I least expected it from. Thou didst violate the oath; thou didst turn away from me, intoxicated with thine own folly.”
“I never turned from thee,” said Jamuga, brokenly. “But thou didst command me to do a thing I could not do. Thou hast hurled me down, and murdered all that I have loved, but still, I would do as I have done as long as there was life in me.”
Temujin dropped his hand, and gazed fully at Jamuga. He seemed about to speak again, with passion, and then could only be silent. Reflections of the sunlight outside came through the flap, and filled the yurt with rippling waves of subdued radiance. They rippled over Jamuga’s tragic face and steadfast, heroic eyes. Temujin continued to gaze at him, and an expression of deep sadness appeared on his features.
“Jamuga, thou hast suffered much, but I know thou art no traitor. Thou wert ill-advised by thy vanity and thy narrow virtue; thou hast never learned to compromise. To have done this would have been to destroy thy whole nature, and death alone can do this.”
He paused, and resumed in melancholy tones: “Because thou hast suffered, because of our old oath, I offer thee now, not death, but peace.”
Jamuga smiled wildly and terribly. “Peace!” he murmured. “What peace for me? Behind me, there is darkness and ruin, and all that I have loved. My life is water that hath run into the sand. It is blood that is spilled, and vanished. Before me, the future is like a grave, without hope or joy or forgetfulness, lighted with no vision, and filled only with the shadows of what I have lost. I would move among the living like a ghost, forever homeless, forever despairing.” He sighed, and the sound was full of anguish.
“How can I live in such a world which thou art making? There is no place in that world for me. The contemplation of it is unendurable, the sight of it too awful for mine eyes. I prefer to die, to leave it behind, and forget it in eternal darkness.”
Temujin listened, and something of his old implacability returned to his face. But he said nothing.
And now a sudden supernatural passion seemed to seize Jamuga, mystical and awful. He seemed to expand; the blazing light brightened in his dying eyes. He pointed his shaking finger at Temujin, who involuntarily recoiled:
“But the world which thou wilt make shall pass in a red mist, and the world which others like thee shall make shall also pass, and there shall be no trace of you! For yours is the way of death, and all that lives must repudiate you. The tyrant is crushed, at the end, by the weight of his victims. The cities he hath broken down shall rise again. The grain he hath burned to the ground shall be replanted, and the fountain he hath polluted shall flow purely once more. Where he hath planted his banners the pastures will once more be at peace, and where his hordes have ridden, the grass will grow and obliterate his footsteps.
“I have dreamed a dream, and I have seen a vision, and they are the way of life! They are the way of the forest which groweth, and the way of the living river. A thousand times thou shalt afflict the earth, and a thousand times thou shalt be forgotten, and men will survive, to plant the ground and build upon it. For that which is good endureth forever, but all that thou doest shall be as trickling sands in thy fingers, dropping again to the desert.”
His voice, strong and fervent, died away, and the glow remained on him. And once again, that prolonged silence filled the yurt.
Then Temujin rose. He stood before Jamuga, and then he extended his hand and laid it on his anda’s shoulder. “Peace be with thee,” he said gently.
He withdrew his own dagger and put it in Jamuga’s icy hand. He looked long into his eyes, and there was no savagery in his own, but only sorrow and weariness.
Then he turned and went out of the yurt, leaving Jamuga alone.
Chapter 24
Temujin’s spies told him that Toghrul Khan, or Wang Khan, with his son, Sen-Kung, and a mighty array of Karait warriors, were advancing down the long slope of the Lake Baikul towards him. He knew that Toghrul Khan had aroused the people east of Lake Baikul, and they were ready for attack and offensive, and were moving down behind Toghrul Khan, to assist him.
Temujin realized that once Toghrul Khan was defeated, disorder and panic would spread among the old Karait’s own people, and this disorder and panic would be communicated to the tribes east of Lake Baikul, and all the other unconquered tribes of the Merkit, Naiman, Uighurs, Ongut, and the other western Turks. The first necessity, then, was the conquest and death of Toghrul Khan.
He called his khans to a kuriltai. A letter was thereafter sent to Toghrul Khan, purported to be written by the terrified Kasar, brother of Temujin.
“My brother Temujin, the khan, hath been sorely stricken with a mysterious illness, and I have been summoned by our people to take his place. I, in turn, summoned a kuriltai, and the khans have persuaded me that to oppose thee would be to court certain ruin. Moreover, I am convinced that no good will be accomplished by any challenge between the Yakka Mongols and the people of my brother’s foster father, and that it is my duty to offer thee, in Temujin’s name, his expression of remorse and promises of filial obedience.”
Sen-Kung, the suspicious, argued with his father that this letter was written in duplicity, but Toghrul Khan, who now could remember Temujin only as he had last seen him, a petty noble whose very existence depended upon the largesse of the towns, was exultant. “I know this dog!” he exclaimed. “Always expedient, always crafty, never overestimating nor underestimating. Look thee, Sen-Kung: what is he compared to us? A miserable vagabond, a shabby baghatur of the steppes, a bandit and a robber. Moreover, he is very intelligent. He knoweth now that he dare not oppose us.”
That night, several horsemen galloped into Toghrul Khan’s camp, declaring themselves, panting, to be deserting khans from the western confederacy. They were deserting Temujin, they said, with angry contempt. His pretensions had disgusted them; he had violated the free pride and independence of the members of his confederacy, by his arrogance and assumption of absolute authority. Moreover, he was now exposing them to great danger, which their people would not survive. They could endure this no longer; they had no quarrel with the mighty Wang Khan, and placed themselves, therefore, at his command.
“Send thou a messenger to Temujin, saying we are here, and have come to our senses, and that if he doth attack thee, we will fight with thee against him.”
Toghrul Khan, made a trifle suspicious by the suspicions of Sen-Kung, listened carefully. Then he was pleased and reassured. He knew the haughty and ferocious pride of the nobles of the barrens, and he knew how they must resent Temujin’s overlordship. He knew their jealousy for their independence. Nevertheless, he asked cautiously:
“Do ye know of any illness of Temujin’s? I have had word that he is stricken.”
They shook their heads, and one sheepishly admitted that they had left Temujin several nights ago, and knew nothin
g of any alleged illness.
Toghrul Khan’s last suspicions disappeared. If these khans were treacherous, and inspired by Temujin, they would have known of any so-called illness, and would have enlarged upon it. Their ignorance argued for their good faith.
“Where are your people?” asked the old Karait.
“Waiting. Just beyond the eastern hills.”
“Then summon them.”
The khans hesitated. “We must be assured that thou dost mean to keep faith with us,” they said.
Toghrul Khan laughed. “Ye have my promise. Tomorrow night, I shall give you all a feast.”
He was very cordial to the traitors, who roamed over the camp, and carefully noted everything. His suspicions might have been aroused again, had they continued to berate Temujin loudly and insistently, but they were silent. When Sen-Kung tormented them for their former idolatrous faith in Temujin, two or three vehemently exclaimed that he was a mighty warrior, and they would regret that new allegiance to Wang Khan if Temujin were further ridiculed. So even Sen-Kung’s suspicions were allayed.
Toghrul Khan sent word to Temujin, ironically commiserating with him because of his illness, and telling him of his khans’ desertion.
“Thou hast not been able to convince these men of thy power, O my doughty foster son! They have deserted thee like weasels; they have run from thy tracks, howling like sick dogs. Thus, they have shown their wisdom. But wisdom is not thine. I therefore call upon thee to humble thyself, to offer thyself up for discipline, and to promise me that thou wilt disband thy silly and infamous petty confederacy. If thou dost not, within three days, I shall order an attack, and thou shalt not be spared, nor one of thy people.”
Temujin, who had been impatiently awaiting this very message, called the remaining khans into counsel.
“Our brothers have arrived in the camp of Toghrul Khan, and I have received word. Now, we will await further information.”
Within a few hours, another message arrived for him from the khans.
“We beseech thee, Temujin, to obey the generous offer of the great Toghrul Khan, and deliver thyself up to him, before the full height of the moon on the third night. We shall be beside him, to receive, with him, the pledge of the disbanding of the confederacy. Do not dream of opposing him. We have only four thousand warriors at our immediate command, and he hath six thousand. Moreover, these warriors are skilled bowmen, and dexterous with the saber, and need no large cavalry to protect themselves. Because of their indomitable spirit, our cavalry will be impotent before them. We urge thee, therefore, to send him an immediate message of thy capitulation.”
Temujin had the letter read to him, and shouted aloud in his exultation. “So!” he cried. “They have six thousand warriors, about half of which are mounted! Write, thou, Subodai.” And he dictated another letter; purporting to come from the terrified Kasar:
“My brother, the khan Temujin, still lyeth in unconsciousness, but I am empowered to offer thee, most glorious Wang Khan, on oath of fealty, humility and obedience. I shall arrive on the morning of the fourth day, with Temujin’s sword.”
And with this message, he enclosed Temujin’s most beloved treasure, a huge gold ring set with a single brilliant blue stone.
Toghrul Khan read the letter to the treacherous khans. But they snorted. “It is a trick,” they said. “If Temujin had been ill, we should have known it. He is merely frightened, and hath used a pretense of sickness in order to escape complete humiliation.”
A letter was dispatched to Kasar, graciously accepting the surrender, and informing him that Toghrul Khan would receive him with honors upon his arrival.
In the meantime, the khans studied the position of their host’s camp, and laid their plans.
Toghrul Khan, even on a campaign, lived luxuriously. His tent was hung with cloth-of-gold. His officers were quartered in pleasant yurts, filled with treasures, such as goblets and plates of engraved silver and rich carpets. The horses were draped with silk, and saddled with fine red leather. The hilts of the officers’ swords were encrusted with gold and gems. There were many women in the camp, singing girls with pretty painted faces, and other girls who were licentious dancers. Musicians, skilled with the flute and the fiddle, made the nights pleasant. The khans moved about, enviously eyeing the treasures, and choosing what would most please them when Temujin arrived.
On the third night, when the moon was full, there was still another feast, and the khans pretended to drink themselves into a stupor. They had to be carried to their yurts. Beyond the yurts, the singing and the dancing and the revelry went on. When they were certain they were no longer watched, the khans gathered together in a place previously designated, and waited. The one with the keenest eyesight crept like a shadow to a rise of ground, and gazed to the south, from which direction the Mongols would come. The others crouched in the darkness, armed and vigilant, not even daring to whisper. At a little distance the sentries paced slowly, yawning, and listening resentfully to the music and laughter. The Karait, who were partially civilized, were not exceedingly well-disciplined, and the sentries took occasion to gather together and exchange bored words.
The moon flooded the landscape of fir and poplar, of plain and hill, of river and great rock, with a white and spectral light. But now it was waning; moreover, to their satisfaction, the Mongols saw that the sky was clouding, and the moon rolled behind these clouds, and her light became nebulous and wandering.
Suddenly, the Mongol sentinel writhed down the rise of ground on his belly, to his companions below. He put his lips to each ear in turn and softly whispered:
“Our lord is approaching. Within the hour, he will be here.”
They waited, holding their breath, their hawk’s eyes fixed on the yawning Karait sentries, who had begun their languid march again on the rim of the higher ground, moving like shadows against the marbled sky.
Then, a signal, barely perceptible, passed among the Mongols. They dared wait no longer. Even the sentries would soon notice the ghostly approach of the enemy. So, moving on silent feet, they sprang upwards, each toward the sentry previously chosen, and flung themselves upon the Karait. They struck their short daggers up to the hilt in each unsuspecting back, and with only the faintest sigh of a groan, the sentries sank to their knees, and then to their faces. It took only instants to divest them of their headdresses, which the Mongols placed upon their own heads. Then, wrapping themselves in their cloaks, the Mongols, carrying naked swords, took the places of the dead men, and paced silently back and forth.
Sen-Kung, in whom the wary instinct of the nomad was well developed, in spite of his civilization, was suddenly uneasy. He sat by his father, drinking and watching the dancing girls. Then he could no longer stand it. He said:
“My father, for some reason my soul is disturbed, and smelleth danger. Permit me to leave thee for a moment, while I consult with the sentries.”
Toghrul Khan, who was just then absorbed in the skillful and obscene contortions of his favorite dancing girl, nodded indifferently, and Sen-Kung rose and started to mount the long swell of ground towards the sentries. He saw them pacing stiffly back and forth, saw them keenly watching the horizon. Still, he was not satisfied.
He approached one of them, who was closely muffled in his cloak.
“All is well?” he asked curtly.
The man nodded. The other sentries, hearing voices, glanced back over their shoulders. They stiffened; their eyes glinted in the wan moonlight. Now the approaching Mongols could be clearly seen, moving like bodiless specters on horseback towards the camp, completely visible from this position.
Sen-Kung breathed deeply through his wide nostrils. He glanced about him; he started to approach another sentry. Then he happened to look southwards and saw the enemy, for the moon suddenly rolled behind her cloud and showed all that was to be seen as clearly as though it were day.
Sen-Kung started violently, his breath loud and harsh in the quiet. Then, with a swift motion, he tore aside the cloak
of the sentry nearest him, and saw, fully, the face of one of the khans. The face glared at him, inimical and savage, and now the other sentries ran swiftly towards him, their swords held low.
The hapless Karait looked at the assumed sentries, and saw that death was upon him. But his last thought was for his people. He opened his mouth to utter a loud desperate cry. But at that instant the sentry at his side thrust his sword deeply into his bowels, and pressed his hand over his lips. But the Karait, even in his extremis, strove to call out his warning to his people. He bit the hand over his mouth with teeth like a wolf’s; dying as he was, and spouting blood from his vitals, his strength was the strength of three men. In a moment he would be free; he could see the legs of the others surrounding him. He tore the hand from his mouth; he bent his knee and thrust it into the belly of the sentry who was bending over him.
Then one of the others, just as he was about to scream out his warning, kicked him violently in the temple, not once, but several times. The dying man’s body arched up; his arms flayed the air. A boot was pressed firmly over his face, and the heel crushed into his eyes. At last, he was still, and did not move again.
The others, panting, smiled grimly at each other. Now they dropped their cloaks. Together they moved down the slope towards the camp, not caring if they were seen. For Temujin and his warriors were almost at hand.
The Mongols no longer moved quietly. They spurred their horses, and with thundering hoofs and screams of exultation, they rode down upon the camp.
Toghrul Khan, who was half asleep, was suddenly awakened by the frenzied shrieks of the girls and the shouts of his warriors. He staggered to his feet, steadying himself against the crouching body of one of the women. He looked down at the plain, and saw the Mongols, saw the curving standard against the moon. He glared about him; he cried out, feebly. His voice, numbed and despairing, called to his officers, who were arousing themselves, blinking in the firelight.
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