The Earth Is the Lord's

by Taylor Caldwell

  Taliph clucked sardonically. “What a realist thou art, my lord Temujin! And thou dost truly believe in the immense superiority of the military man?”

  Temujin was no longer smiling. He regarded Taliph with open contempt. “Yes. Look thou, my lord: I have often said before that men are incapable of thought and reason. What happiness they feel is only the happiness of an animal who eateth well, and doth excrete, and hateth fiercely and briefly, and whose whole nature is full of simple ferocity and the desire for strife. Life hath designed him to be only a military tool, and when he hath become this tool he is completely happy, for he hath all the opportunities to fulfill all the demands of his inherent nature. And so, because he is completely himself, he is the perfect tool in the hand of his master, and being completed, he is superior to those men who languish in the cramped pattern they have stupidly designed for themselves.”

  Taliph listened intently. This barbarian, he thought, doth express himself like a poet, or a philosopher! He did not smile, as he pondered Temujin’s words. He recalled that he had heard his father say that Temujin was illiterate, yet he spoke as a man of great learning. Truly, the barrens were a mighty school!

  He curved his thin hand like a dark bird’s wing over his mouth, to conceal his surprised thoughts. Over its edge he regarded Temujin with intense thoughtfulness and some perturbation. The bending fronds of the ostrich fan threw alternate shades of light and shadow over his elegant face. The fountain sang softly in the warm stillness. The lady’s black eyes shone upon Temujin with a sort of fascinated lewdness and adoration.

  At last Taliph dropped his concealing hand, and a smile covered his thoughts. “Thou hast little love for thy fellow man, my lord! I do not blame thee. But still, the philosophers, for all the bitterness of their tongues, do exhort us to mercy and gentleness. I fear thou art no philosopher. But surely, thou dost believe in something?”

  “In myself.” Temujin’s voice was quiet and strong. Taliph arched a brow sarcastically. But Temujin’s voice had had no arrogance, no egotism in it. He was like one who had stated a self-evident truth, simply and with forthrightness. “I also believe in force,” he added, after a moment. “Argumentations and philosophy are weak reeds in battle. The sword doth ask no questions and replieth to none. All men understand the sword, but their ears are like the ears of donkeys, which are deaf to words.”

  Taliph sighed, lifted his hands, dropped them with a graceful gesture of ironic futility. “I am afraid that thou must despise me then, Temujin. I believe in the Word. I believe that it will conquer the Sword, at the last. I believe in gentleness and philosophy. I believe in beauty.”

  He stopped, for Temujin had burst into a roar of laughter. He was slapping his thigh. “Thou didst accuse me of hating my fellow men, my lord!” he shouted. “Do thou turn thine accusation upon thyself!”

  Taliph paled. His lip lifted coldly with affront. Then, because he never lied in his heart to himself, he suddenly colored brightly. He began to smile. Finally he laughed outright, his eyes glittering, his slender body shaking with his huge laughter at himself. And the lady laughed with the sound of tinkling bells, though she had understood nothing.

  Exhausted, finally, by his laughter, Taliph said: “I fear thou art too much for me, Temujin.” His voice was gay and light. “Thou are disconcertingly shrewd. Moreover, I do suspect thou art a poet, also, however thou wouldst repudiate this.”

  Temujin, pleased by the appreciation of this accomplished townsman, was ready to be gracious and accommodating. “Nay, I am no poet, my lord. But I love it. Wilt thou not honor me by reciting some of thine?”

  Taliph was also pleased. He had been writing poetry all morning, poetry only faintly suggestive of Omar Khayyam. He stretched out his long jewelled hand, and took a rolled manuscript from the table beside him.

  “This is only a fragment of a kind of Rubaiyat, Temujin,” he said, sighing daintily. “An expression of boredom and weariness, and the resignation of despair. I dislike most intensely inflicting it upon thee, but thou hast a fresh outlook, and mayhap thou canst tell me what is wrong with it.”

  The lady, well schooled in what she must do, lifted a small stringed instrument from the table, and ran her white fingers over it delicately. It emitted a poignant and melancholy tremor of sound, which seemed to quiver on the warm and scented air like a sigh. Taliph leaned back against his cushions, and began to recite softly and feelingly:

  “Ah, with the wine my fainting life provide,

  And lave my flesh from which the soul hath died,

  And lay me, shrouded with the living vine,

  Beneath the shadow of some mountain-side.

  “Alas! the gods that I have loved so long,

  Have done my honor in this land much wrong,

  Have quenched my spirit in a goblet bright,

  And sold my wisdom to the market throng!”

  The music trembled into melancholy silence. Taliph’s voice dropped, full of musical sorrow. It was a long moment before he glanced up at Temujin, for his comment. He was disconcerted and angered to discover that Temujin was grinning shamelessly and openly. And then his anger flamed to cold rage when Temujin began to applaud loudly, with unconcealed irony.

  “I have always loved those verses!” he exclaimed. “But methinks they were slightly different. Shall I repeat them to thee, my lord?”

  Taliph turned the color of the blue-white kumiss. His lips became the very hue of lead.

  Temujin, still grinning, nodded to the lady, who struck up a louder and more rollicking air. Then the young Mongol sat upright, assumed an attitude:

  “Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide,

  And wash the Body whence the Life has died,

  And lay me, shrouded in the living Leaf,

  By some not unfrequented Garden-side.

  “Indeed the Idols I have loved so long

  Have done my credit in this World much wrong:

  Have drowned my glory in a shallow Cup,

  And sold my Reputation for a Song!”

  Taliph was astounded. His lips opened, dropped, giving him an idiotic expression. He had lived long enough not to be surprised overmuch at anything, but now he was utterly nonplussed. He thought that he must be dreaming. He incredulously refused to believe that this illiterate barbarian had actually recited the verses of the over-civilized and decadent Persian poet, Omar Khayyam. This barbarian, in his rough woolen coat, his deerskin boots, his bronzed face and emerald eyes, his dazzling, animal teeth, his smell and his beastlike virility! It was a nightmare, a grotesque dream, from which he must awake, gasping and laughing. He could only stare at Temujin with staring eyes, all his elegance somehow absurd, his hands fallen, lax, beside him.

  Temujin was openly enjoying his triumph. He winked at the lady, mockingly, and she incontinently winked back, delighted.

  Taliph uttered a strangled murmur. He forced himself to smile. Temujin smiled at him, without malice.

  “Thou dost see, my lord,” he said, in a tone that Taliph could hardly endure, “mine uncle, Kurelen, is well-versed in poetry and philosophy, and can recite verses unendingly. Omar Khayyam is one of his great favorites. I have heard him recite the whole Rubaiyat many times. I know it almost by heart. But I congratulate thee: it would take a very careful ear, indeed, to detect it in thy verses. And I must confess that I believe thou hast improved upon it.”

  Taliph found this the most unendurable of all. He inwardly writhed. His tinted nails bit into his soft palms. His smile was the smile of some venomous reptile. No one in all the world would have dared so to affront him. But at last he made himself laugh, thinly, raspingly.

  “I am afraid thou art too much for me, Temujin!” he exclaimed, affecting to wipe tears of mirth from his eyes. He looked at Temujin with a twinkling expression. “And I am also afraid that I have underestimated thee. Accept my apology.”

  Temujin laughed a little. But his eyes were no longer gleaming with mockery and merriment. For now he understood that he had
made his most deadly enemy, who would stop at nothing to destroy him.

  At first, he was disconcerted. He told himself that he was a fool, that he had long ago learned that unnecessary enemies were made only by stupid men, or men too strong to care. But the wise man, Kurelen had told him often, strives to make friends, if only to betray them the more completely in the future. He had made an unnecessary enemy, where he might have made a friend who would not overly oppose him. And then, he was contemptuous. At least, let me honor a worthy foe, he thought. What have I to fear from this flabby townsman, whose neck I could wring as easily as I could wring the neck of a lamb?

  His broad dark face became cold with arrogance and disdain.

  He took his leave soon thereafter, abruptly, without asking the permission of his host. Taliph again expressed his pleasure in Temujin’s presence in the palace, and promised that they would have plenty of conversations together. But the air was full of poison during the last few moments they were together, and Taliph’s face was still pale with his malevolent humiliation.

  Temujin had no sooner gone than the young lord made his way at once to his father, who had just awakened from his afternoon sleep.

  “My father,” said Taliph, with an air of regretful honesty, “I have spoken to thy barbarian vassal. I have but one thing to say to thee, at this moment: he is a dangerous animal, and must die. But not immediately. We must choose the correct hour.”

  Chapter 16

  Chepe Noyon could see at once that his lord was perturbed, for he was frowning, and answered questions with a short irritability.

  “I have made a fool of myself,” he said, after some time, to Chepe Noyon. And then he told what had taken place between himself and Taliph. Chepe Noyon listened with a quizzical expression and a half smile. Kasar, whose simple mind could understand no subtleties, merely gathered that Taliph had annoyed his adored brother, and he exclaimed that he would go immediately and teach the effete young lord proper manners. This outburst restored Temujin’s good humor, and he rallied Kasar and teased him until the poor youth was completely bewildered, and on the verge of enraged tears.

  “But seriously, my lord,” said Chepe Noyon, who always took more liberties with Temujin than any one else, because he understood him more, “thou wert exceedingly indiscreet.” He coughed delicately. “I confess that I do not understand what hath brought us here, but whatever thou hast in mind is endangered by thy desire to ridicule the lord Taliph. Kurelen once told us that thou mayest rob a man, betray him, worst him in any encounter, and thou mayest at some time obtain his forgiveness, and even his friendship. But if thou dost humiliate him, and laugh at him, he will never forgive thee, but will always remain thy remorseless enemy.”

  Temujin frowned. He suddenly remembered that Taliph was the brother of Azara, and the son of Toghrul Khan. He had most certainly done his plans no good. His annoyance with himself grew rapidly. But he exclaimed:

  “I could not resist it, I tell thee! But what have I to fear from a man who writeth poetry, and bad poetry at that, and stolen?”

  Chepe Noyon shrugged. “If he had written good poetry, and his own, and even then thou hadst ridiculed him, he would have forgiven thee, for he would have known that thou art only an illiterate barbarian, and nothing better could have been expected of thee. Therefore, thou hast much to fear from him.”

  “Oh, thou art an old woman!” Temujin said, with contempt. Chepe Noyon was not offended. He merely shrugged again, yawned, lay back on his cushions and blissfully closed his eyes. Temujin scowled at him, began to pace the floor, muttering under his breath. Kasar watched him with humble and eager eyes. He was willing to engage the whole palace in defense of his brother.

  A eunuch entered and announced that the great lord, Toghrul Khan, requested the presence of his noble foster son, Temujin, at the evening meal. On his arm the eunuch disdainfully bore a robe of soft white silk, a girdle of twisted silver, a necklace and arm-bracelets of heavy silver and turquoises, and sandals made of the softest blue leather. These, he remarked in his high womanish voice, were garments selected by the khan, himself, for his guest. While Temujin, with grunts of laughter, was examining these beautiful garments, and vowing he would not wear them, servants entered and informed him that his bath was ready.

  “They apparently do not like the way we smell,” remarked Chepe Noyon, enviously fingering the silk, and rattling the necklace and bracelets.

  “I shall not wear them!” repeated Temujin. And then he bit his lip. He had a premonition that Azara would be present, however Eastern and Moslem etiquette forbid the presence of women. He examined the garments with a sudden interest, then tossed them from his disdainfully. “Perhaps, however, it would be discourteous for me to refuse the gifts of my foster father.”

  “Are we not to accompany thee, lord?” asked Kasar, in dismay.

  The eunuch answered him with lofty coldness: “The invitation is only for the noble lord, Temujin.”

  Temujin followed his attendants into the bathroom. There, in a room of chastest marble, was a sunken pool of warm and perfumed water. He threw off his brown coat and rough undergarment of wool, and tugged off his boots, refusing the assistance of the servants. He stood naked before them, and they were amazed at the milky whiteness of his skin, which had been protected from the desert sun. Pagan admirers of physical perfection, they stood in astounded silence, gazing at his lean and beautiful body, muscled and firm, like a statue. His flesh rippled and shimmered like silk. Only his throat and face and arms were brown. He unbraided his hair, and it hung to his shoulders, red as new gold, and as bright. He was a young god, utterly splendid. He leaped into the water and splashed vigorously, aware of the admiration of the slaves, and pretending to ignore them. When he emerged from the pool, the drops of water clinging to his skin and glittering like quicksilver, they wiped him with soft linen towels and anointed him with perfumed ointment. Then they brought his new garments to him.

  But before dressing him they shaved away the red stubble on his cheeks and chin. He emerged from their ministrations, clean-skinned and fresh. They brushed and combed his hair until it shone, and suggested that he leave it unbraided. He thought this effeminate, but they assured him that the finest gentlemen of Bokhara, Baghdad and Samarkand left it so, and after a while he was persuaded. He looked in the silver mirror held up to him, and conceded to himself that his rippling locks gave him a certain irresistible air.

  When he emerged, with a faint swagger, into the presence of Chepe Noyon and Kasar, they could only gaze at him with open-mouthed incredulity. The soft white silken garment draped itself lovingly about him. His narrow waist was encircled with the silver and turquoise girdle. About his brown neck was the heavy necklace, and clasped about his brown bare arms were the shining bracelets. From under the robe peeped his blue sandals. His red hair curled daintily on his shoulders, and was as bright as the sun, and its very color at sunset. Moreover, he moved in an aura of perfume.

  At last Kasar found his voice, and he wailed: “They have made a woman of my lord!”

  But Chepe Noyon paced reverently about the flushing young man, and admired him from every angle. “I would not have believed it!” he murmured in hushed tones. He sniffed audibly. “Roses from dew-wet gardens! Ah, I was made for this!”

  Temujin felt foolish. He scowled forbiddingly. But this was mere pretense. He was exceedingly proud of himself. He kept thinking that no woman could resist him now. He ran his hands over the encrusted turquoises on his belt, and smiled.

  “Thou wilt outshine any fine gentleman at this court!” exclaimed Chepe Noyon. “But I trust that the khan will not allow any of his women to see thee!”

  Temujin bridled egotistically, while Kasar watched him with distended and stricken eyes, speechless, certain that his lord was completely ruined. Temujin was amused. He made a frank and obscene gesture.

  “Do not be so disturbed, Kasar. I assure thee I am still a man!”

  Chepe Noyon shrieked with laughter. Even the atte
ndants smiled. But Kasar gingerly lifted the hem of Temujin’s robe, and when he saw the bare legs underneath, he lifted his voice in such acute lamentation that Temujin flung himself on a divan and laughed himself into helplessness, and Chepe Noyon, convulsed, rolled on the floor.

  Temujin was still laughing as he followed the eunuch through the winding corridors to Toghrul Khan’s apartments. The eunuchs on guard in the corridor admired him with their eyes, but reproached his levity with severe expressions. His leader moved aside heavy scarlet draperies, and he found himself entering the lofty white room of his foster father.

  Now that the sun had fallen the evening had become swiftly cold. Smoking braziers stood in each of the four corners of the room. The crystal and silver lamps had been lighted, and stood, beaming and soft, on the many tables. Very low divans had been drawn in a semicircle in the center of the room, and on these divans sat Toghrul Khan, Taliph and his favorite wife, the lady of the scarlet litter, and Azara, and an old man clad in simple white and crimson garments. Before them were low tables, covered with gleaming white cloths, and set with enamelled Persian plates, Chinese silver platters, golden cups, and bowls of jewel-like fruit, dates and figs and pears and apples.

  The scarlet curtains fell behind Temujin, and he stood, a white statue, before them, no longer laughing. His eye had gone swiftly over all of them. But now he saw only Azara, clad in silver, and veilless. He saw at once that her face was as white and cold as marble, and thin, and that her eyes were shadowed with violet. But she, of all of them, did not look at him. Her head was slightly averted.

  Toghrul Khan regarded Temujin with smiling surprise. “Ah! My son, welcome to the home of thy father.” He extended his claw of a hand to Temujin, who advanced, took the hand, knelt, and touched his forehead to the khan’s feet.

  “I would not have known thee,” said Toghrul Khan, admiringly. “What a change white silk and perfume can make in a man. Stand, and let me gaze my fill of thee.”

  Temujin stood up. And now Azara slowly lifted her head and looked at him, and he looked only at her. She did not smile. Her black eyes dilated. Her lips were pale and chill and dry as a leaf. They regarded each other as from an immense distance, rapt and entranced and sorrowful. Temujin thought to himself: I never knew how much I love her! There is no other woman in all the world for me. But what grief hath so darkened her eyes and rendered white her lips?