He rubbed his eyes roughly and found a smear of moisture on his gloves that made him sigh. Kachiun had been a friend. His death had brought home the fact that Tsubodai too was getting old.
“This is my last campaign,” he murmured to the figure in the pyre. He could see Kachiun in his blackened armor, alone in a furnace of yellow-gold. “When I am done, I will bring your ashes home, old friend.”
“He was a great man,” Batu said.
Tsubodai gave a start. He had not heard him approach over the crackling flames. Fury welled up in him that Batu would bring his petty bitterness even to the funeral of Kachiun. He began to reply, but Batu held up an open palm.
“No mockery, Orlok. I did not know half his story until I heard it from the shaman.”
Tsubodai stifled his retort and held Batu’s steady gaze for a few more moments before looking back to the pyre. Batu spoke again, his voice gentle with awe.
“He hid with Genghis and other children from their enemies. They were hardened by starvation and fear. From that family, from those brothers, we all spring. I understand that, Orlok. You too were there for some of it. You have seen a nation born. I can hardly imagine such a thing.” Batu sighed and gripped the bridge of his nose between his fingers, rubbing the tiredness out. “I hope there is a tale to tell when it is my turn in the flames.”
Tsubodai looked at him, but Batu was already walking away through the snow. The air was clean and cold, promising more snow on the way.
TWENTY-FIVE
The dancers came to a halt, sweat gleaming on their bodies, the bells on their wrists and ankles falling silent. Incense was strong in the air, pouring in wreaths of white smoke out of censers as they swung at the foot of the marble stairs. The influence of Greece was everywhere in the palace, from columns of fluted marble and busts of King Bela and his ancestors, to the scanty costumes of the dancing girls waiting with their heads bowed. The walls themselves were decorated in gold leaf from Egypt and blue lapis lazuli from the Afghan hills. The ceiling stretched above them in a great dome that dominated the river city of Esztergom. In the inlaid images, it proclaimed the glory of the risen Christ, and of course the glory of the Hungarian king.
The courtiers prostrated themselves, pressed as close as bees in a hive, so that their bodies covered the tiled floor. Only the martial lords remained standing around the walls, looking at each other with poorly concealed irritation. Among them was Josef Landau, master of the Livonian Brothers. He glanced at his brother knight, a man who had recently become his commanding officer. Conrad von Thuringen was a powerful figure in all senses, with the build to handle the enormous longsword he wore and a black beard shot through with gray that did nothing to reduce his physical menace. Von Thuringen was the grand master of the Teutonic Knights, an order that had been formed in the city of Acre, near Galilee. He bowed only to priests. The pomp and glitter of King Bela’s court made little impression on a man who had dined with the Holy Roman Emperor and even Pope Gregory himself.
Josef was a little in awe of the grizzled commander. If the Teutonic Knights had not agreed to amalgamate, his Brothers of Livonia would have been disbanded after their losses in war. The double-headed black eagle he now wore had its twin on Conrad’s chest. Together, their landholdings made them almost the equal of the king who made them wait on him like servants. Yet they served a higher power and the delay only served to tighten Josef’s nerves and temper.
King Bela’s seneschal began to recite the titles of his master, and Josef saw Von Thuringen’s eyes flicker upward in frustration. The Holy Roman Emperor ruled a hundred territories, as far-flung as Italy and Jerusalem. King Bela of Hungary could not match those possessions. It pleased Josef that his commander had little patience for vanities. Such things were of the world and the Teutonic Order forced their gaze to heaven, so that the venal sins of men were far beneath them. Josef touched the cross of black and gold that he wore on his chest, proud that his Brothers of Livonia had been taken up by a noble order. If they had not been, he thought he might have put away his armor and sword and become a wandering monk, with a begging bowl and rags to serve the Christ. At times when politics hung as thick in the air as incense, such a life still appealed to him.
The seneschal finished his litany of titles, and the crowd in the palace hall grew tense for the arrival of their master. Josef smiled to see Conrad scratch the side of his mouth in boredom, where a sore had scabbed over. Horns sounded a low note across the city to announce the arrival of the king. Josef wondered if the peasants in the markets were meant to prostrate themselves as well. The idea made his own mouth twitch, but he controlled himself as King Bela entered at last, striding to the top of the marble steps, so that he was almost the height of a man above them all.
The king was blond-bearded and wore his hair to his shoulders. A gold crown sat firmly on his head, and his pale blue eyes looked out from under it. As his gaze traveled across them, both Josef Landau and Conrad von Thuringen bowed, the angle carefully chosen. King Bela did not acknowledge their presence beyond a brief nod, then took his place on a throne decorated in the same gold and blue as the walls. It glittered behind him as he was handed the ceremonial regalia of his monarchy, including a great staff of gold. As Josef watched, the king lifted it and let it fall three times, striking the ground. The seneschal stood back and some other servant dressed almost as richly came forward to address the crowd.
“There will be no judgments today, no court. The king has spoken. Let those who have such business remove themselves from his presence. You may petition the master of the court at noon.”
Josef could see anger and frustration on the faces of many of the men and women who rose from prostration and turned away. They had more sense than to let the king see their response to his edict. Josef could imagine how they had bribed and waited to get into that room, only to be told to leave before a word was spoken about their cases. He saw one young woman in tears as she left, and he frowned to himself. The room emptied quickly, until only a dozen or so men remained, all senior lords or knights.
“The Cuman Lord Köten is summoned!” cried the seneschal.
Some of the lords looked askance at one another, but Josef noted that Conrad appeared relaxed. When their eyes met, the older man shrugged very slightly, all the answer he could give with the king’s gaze on them.
Doors at the back opened and a small man walked in, in many ways the opposite of the king above him. Köten’s skin was almost as dark as the Moors of Jerusalem to Josef’s eyes. He had the sunken face and wiry build of a man who had never known more food than he needed to stay alive, a rarity in that court. His eyes were fierce and he bowed only a fraction deeper than Conrad and Josef had before him.
King Bela rose from his throne and spoke for the first time that morning.
“My lords, honored knights, freemen. The Tartars have crossed the mountains.”
He repeated the words in Russian and Latin, a demonstration of his scholarship.
Conrad and Josef both crossed themselves at the words, with Conrad going on to kiss a heavy gold ring he wore on his left hand. Josef knew it contained a tiny relic of the True Cross from Calvary. He could only wish he had such a talisman of power to soothe his own nerves.
The reaction of Köten was to lean his head to one side and spit on the floor at his feet. The king and his courtiers froze at the action, and high points of color appeared in Bela’s cheeks. Before he could act, perhaps to order the man to lick up his own spittle, Köten spoke.
“They are not Tartars, Your Majesty, they are Mongol warriors. They move quickly and they slaughter every living thing in their path. If you have friends, my king, call them now. You will need them all.”
The king’s eyes were cold as he looked down on the room. “I gave your people sanctuary here, Köten. Two hundred thousand of your tribe, your families. You crossed the mountains to get away from these … Mongol warriors, did you not? You were not so well dressed then, Köten. You were ragged and close t
o death. Yet I took you in. I gave you lands and food from my own hand.”
“In exchange for taking the body and blood, Your Majesty,” Köten replied. “I was baptized myself into … our faith.”
“That is the gift of the Spirit, God’s favor to you. The world’s price has yet to be paid, Köten.”
The small man clenched his hands behind his back as he waited. Josef was fascinated. He had heard of the mass exodus of refugees from Russia, leaving their dead in the frozen mountains rather than be hunted down. The stories they had spread of this “Golden Horde” of Mongols had done the work of an army all on its own. Half of Hungary quaked at the threat and the rumors of black smoke in the mountains. Josef could see the whiteness of Köten’s knuckles against the darker skin as King Bela went on.
“If I am to count you friend, I will need every warrior under your command. I will supply what arms they need and I will give them good soup to keep them warm, fuel for their fires, fodder for their horses, salt for their food. Your oath has been sworn, Köten. As your liege lord, my orders are to stand and face the enemy with me. Do not fear for your people. This is my land. I will stop them here.”
He paused and for a time Köten let the silence go on. At last, as if exhausted, his shoulders dipped.
“Will your allies be sending armies? The Pope? The Holy Roman Emperor?”
It was King Bela’s turn to grow stiff and still. Pope Gregory and Emperor Frederick were locked in their own struggle. He had entreated them both for men and arms for more than a year, ever since the refugees had arrived from Russia. King Frederick had sent the Teutonic Knights: 1,190 men chosen for the founding year of their order and never exceeding that number. They were legendary fighters, but against a Golden Horde of savage warriors, Bela could imagine them being swept away like leaves in a storm. Still he showed only confidence to the men he needed to support him.
“I have been promised an army from King Boleslav of Krakow, one from Duke Henry of Silesia, another from King Wenceslas of Bohemia. There will be fresh reinforcements in the spring. In the meantime, we have my own men of Hungary, Lord Köten: sixty thousand soldiers, all well trained and hungry to defend their land. And we have the knights, Köten. They will hold the line. With your horsemen, I can field a hundred thousand soldiers.” He smiled at the thought of such a colossal number. “We will take the worst they can offer us, and then we will strike back in the thaw and end this threat to peace forever.”
Köten sighed visibly. “Very well. I can bring my forty thousand to this dance, my king. We will stand.” He shrugged. “In winter there is nowhere to run anyway, not where they cannot catch us.”
Conrad von Thuringen coughed into his mailed hand. The king looked across the meeting hall at him and nodded graciously. The knight marshal of the Teutonic Order scratched his beard for a moment, reaching through the heavy thatch to some flea or louse on the skin.
“Your Majesty, my lord Köten. The Emperor Frederick did not send us to you. His is the authority over the earth, not the souls of men. We came because of the Christian brothers from Russia, fresh converted to the True Faith. We will stand between those families and the storm. It is no more than our duty.”
Around the room, other noblemen stepped forward to pledge their soldiers and houses to the king’s cause. Josef waited until they had finished before he too swore his eight hundred knights of Livonia to service. He saw that Köten looked less than impressed, and he smiled slightly at the man. As one of those “fresh converts” Conrad had mentioned, Köten had no inkling yet of the force of men armed in Christ. The knights were few in number, but each one was a master of weapons, as strong on the field as in his faith in God. For all their fearsome reputation, he was certain the Mongol army would break on the knights like a wave on a rock.
“Every king should have such men to follow him,” Bela said, visibly pleased at their open support. For once he would not have to broker deals and persuade or bribe his lords to save themselves. “The enemy has gathered in the foothills of the Carpathians. They are no more than three hundred miles away, with the Danube and Sajó rivers between us. We have a month, perhaps two at most, to make ready for them. They will not be here before spring.”
“Your Majesty,” Köten said in the pause. “I have seen them move. It is true the entire camp would take so long to reach us, but the tumans—the raiding armies—could cross that much land in eight days. If they did not spend the summers resting, Majesty, they could have been here long before. They came into Moscow on the frozen river. They run like wolves in winter, while other men sleep. We should be ready, at least as ready as it is possible to be.”
King Bela frowned. Standing above them, he twisted an ornate gold ring on one hand with the fingers of the other, a gesture of nerves that was not lost on Köten or the lords present. He had ascended the throne only six years before, on the death of his father. Nothing in his experience had prepared him for the sort of war he now faced. At last he nodded.
“Very well. Marshal von Thuringen, you will decamp today to Buda and Pest to oversee the preparations. We will be ready for them when they come.”
The king put out his hand and his seneschal drew a longsword and handed it to him. In front of them all, Bela raised the blade and cut his forearm. He remained impassive as blood flowed, using his hand to daub it all along the blade, until most of the silver was red.
“My lords, you see the blood royal of Hungary. Make a dozen like this and take the swords out to the villages and towns. Hold them high. The people will answer the call of their noblemen, the call to arms of their king. We will defend the kingdom. Let this be the sign.”
Tsubodai stood huddled in furs, stretching out his hands to a crackling fire. The smoke rose and his gaze followed it, drifting up to ancient beams in the barn. It had been long abandoned by the farmer, and part of the roof had sagged and broken. It smelled of horses and straw and it was dry enough, at least at one end. It was not much of a place to begin the conquest of a country, but there was nowhere else in the frozen fields that stretched to the horizon. He watched as an icicle on the open door dripped, and frowned at the sight. Surely it was just the warmth from the fire reaching it. Yet this was a new land. He knew nothing of the seasons, or how long the winter would last.
His seven generals waited patiently for him, chewing noisily on pouches of bread and meat and passing a fat skin to take gulps of airag that kept them warm.
Kachiun’s senior minghaan, Ilugei, had taken over the tuman. In time, a new general would be appointed at the khan’s order, but in the field, Tsubodai had raised Ilugei. It was no coincidence that the man was gray-haired and wiry, almost forty years of age and one of those trained in the personal guard of Genghis. Tsubodai had had enough of the young lions Batu had gathered around him. He would have preferred Khasar, if he had not been almost five thousand miles away in Karakorum. He needed dependable men if he was to take the army on to the sea.
“Attend me,” Tsubodai said, without preamble. He paused only for a beat as the generals stopped eating and came closer to hear. “The farther we go west, the more danger comes from the flanks. If we drive on, it is as a spear thrust into the center of an army: Every step is greater risk.”
He did not look at Batu as he spoke, though the prince smiled. Tsubodai paused to take a draft of airag, feeling the warmth spread in his stomach.
“I am splitting the army in three. Baidur and Ilugei will strike north. My scouts tell me there is an army near a city named Krakow. Your orders are to remove it from the field and burn the city. The small kings there cannot be allowed to form up on our flank.”
He looked Ilugei in the eye.
“You have more years of experience than Baidur, who is new to the role.” Tsubodai sensed Baidur stiffen as the younger man saw his authority threatened before his eyes. He went on. “Can you accept his command over you, Ilugei?”
“I can, Orlok,” Ilugei replied, bowing his head.
Baidur let out a breath. It wa
s a small thing, but Tsubodai had taken one of Batu’s supporters and deliberately favored him.
“Guyuk and Mongke, the lands to the south must be laid waste. You will take your tumans to the south of us. Sweep the land clear of anyone capable of fielding a force of men or horses. When you have scorched the earth, return and support me.”
“What about me, Orlok?” Batu said softly. He was frowning deeply at the news that Guyuk would be sent to the south, well away from him. “Where would you have me stand?”
“At my side, of course,” Tsubodai replied with a smile. “You and I will strike west with Jebe, Chulgetei, and the ragged army we command on foot. With three tumans, we will raze Hungary together, while our brothers clear the flanks.”
There was no ceremony as the men walked away from the old barn. Tsubodai noticed how Batu made a point of clapping Guyuk on the back, but there was strain in both men’s faces. They had fought and ridden with Tsubodai’s eyes on them and other tumans ready to ride in support. They were not afraid of the responsibility. Each man there welcomed the chance to act on his own. It was why they had sought power, and it had come upon them in the foothills of the Carpathians, from the hand of Tsubodai. Only Batu, Jebe, and Chulgetei would remain. The three men were a little wistful as they watched the others break into a jog to reach their warriors quickly.
“It feels like a race, does it not?” Jebe said.
Batu turned cold eyes on him. “Not to me. It seems I am to stay with my wet nurse and you.”
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