The Earth Is the Lord's

by Taylor Caldwell

  “I have many times said unto ye that the land between the three rivers must have a lord. Ye have dwelt in anarchy, in purposeless turbulence, in restless comings and goings. So, ye have had no safety, no wealth, no permanent pastures, until I came unto you, and gave you a vision of unity and strength. We have dwelt in harmony, we khans, like brothers ruling separate kingdoms, and consulting each other. We are a confederacy of many tribes and small nations.”

  He looked at them for a silent moment. They bent forward in order to listen more attentively, and the lamplight gave them the appearance of bronze statues.

  “Ye know how well we have lived, since ye followed my vision. Ye know how strong we are. For the first time in many ages, the nomad people who have followed me have known no famine, no disorder, no violence. We have learnt order and discipline confining authority to ourselves, and quelling the individual and presumptuous quarrels of those under us.

  “The world has admired us. But like all those who are admired, we have inspired hatred and envy and fear. There are those, now, powerful and mighty, who wish to destroy us.”

  The khans exchanged significant and somber looks. Some of them knew why they had been summoned, and their faces darkened with sullen gravity and uneasiness. No man spoke, yet a deep murmur, guttural and fierce, seemed to blow through the yurt.

  Then they looked intently again at Temujin, seeing how his eyes sparkled with ferocity and excitement.

  “I have been betrayed, and through my betrayal, all of you, all our people, are threatened to their death.”

  He paused. “My foster father, Toghrul Khan, humorously called Wang Khan, by reason of his abject and crawling slavery to the people of the Golden Empire, hath repudiated his vow of friendship with my father, and his oath of paternalism to me. He hath observed that we have become strong and formidable. He hath seen that we are no longer slaves under the whim of elements and stronger men. And so, he hath conjured up the idea that we are a menace to him and his profits and his lusts. He would reduce us again to starving hordes, dependent upon his bounty, and, compelled by hunger and weakness, to serve him whenever he doth call.”

  Most of the khans flushed with rage. Their faces took on his own wild excitement. But quite a few looked disturbed and more uneasy. They dropped their eyes; they fumbled with their garments or the rings on their fingers. The first exclaimed hoarsely; the latter were silent.

  “We shall not endure this ignominy, this slavery, this threat!” cried one of the khans, who worshipped Temujin. His companions muttered angrily in affirmation. But the others were silent, and stole furtive glances at each other. Among them were Temujin’s own people, the gray-eyed Bourchikoun, who, like all kinsmen, were jealous and suspicious of gains and powers attained by those of their blood. Many of them had been forcibly subjugated by Temujin, and compelled to join the confederation by threats. Had he been a stranger, they would have felt little animosity. But because he was a kinsman, they secretly resented or hated him, felt humiliated and dishonored.

  Temujin’s glittering eye, passing from face to face, saw this incipient resentment or disaffection. He picked out a forceful man among the dissenters, and fixed him with a fiery glance.

  “Borchu! Thy father was my father’s cousin! Thou art my kinsman. What hast thou to say?”

  Borchu, a middle-aged man, lean and black of hair, and quite without fear, lifted his eyes to Temujin’s face and spoke quietly, with an aspect of reason:

  “What can we gain by resistance or attack? Toghrul Khan is the mightiest of the Karait. He hath armies much vaster than all of ours put together. Thou hast said, Temujin, that Toghrul Khan is enraged against us. Thou knowest full well that only a miracle could permit us to be successful against him. And I,” he added wryly, with a long humorous glance at his companions, “do not believe in miracles.”

  There was a sharp silence. The disaffection of the Bourchikoun made them a separate and hostile camp, eyed by the others with rage and mortification.

  “This is cowardice!” cried one of the khans, at last.

  Borchu turned his slow intent eye upon the speaker. “Cowardice?” he asked softly. He made a movement as though to rise, his hand on his saber. “Who sayeth cowardice?”

  The khan was a young man, full of eagerness and anger. “I!” he cried, his cheeks burning red with loyalty to Temujin. “And treachery! Whoever doth disagree with our lord is a traitor!”

  The yurt was suddenly filled with the more acrid pungency of the sweat of excitement. Every man moved and murmured. Every nostril distended, as though smelling blood. Every eye gleamed with the lust for battle. For several moments violence seemed about to break out openly in the yurt.

  Then Temujin laughed, loud and ringingly, and the sound was like cold water flung into each fierce and congested face.

  “What fools ye are, quarrelling among yourselves in this hour of terrible danger! I have asked ye to come to me for discussion and planning, not for petty fights under my very eyes. I will talk. I will fling accusations of treachery or cowardice!” He held them with his glance, so hypnotic and inexorable. “But, so far as I can see, there is no traitor here, no coward. Unless he so brand himself.”

  He waited. The Bourchikoun were still infuriated and resentful. But before that compelling look, that implacable glance, they sank into silence, and turned their eyes away. They hated Temujin more than ever, but for some mysterious reason, they dared not murmur nor return gaze for gaze.

  Every man subsided, sighing audibly. But the division between the two camps remained.

  Temujin resumed: “Borchu, speak freely. I wish thine opinion.”

  Borchu hesitated. Then, after gathering in the supporting glances of his kinmen, he regained courage. He spoke boldly and quietly:

  “It is my sincere opinion that we can gain nothing by open conflict with Toghrul Khan. Everything we have gained, under thy most wise leadership,” and again his face and voice were wry and ironical, “will be lost. Who are we, to challenge Toghrul Khan? We are outnumbered. We have no battle bases, except our own tribes. And Toghrul Khan hath not only the weight of his own tremendous paid armies, but the support of the Turkish towns behind him. And perhaps even the awesome empires of Cathay.” He paused. “We are a handful of men challenging a whole world,” he added, gloomily. “A cloud of gnats shrieking defiance to a flock of hawks!”

  Again, Temujin’s camp muttered loud and wrathfully, handling their sabers. But Temujin held up his hand for silence. He looked only at Borchu.

  “And,” he said, in a voice heavy with mocking deference, “what wouldst thou do in the face of his threat to us?”

  Borchu shrugged, and once more looked at his kinsmen for support.

  “I suggest that we immediately submit to the overlordship of Toghrul Khan, renew our vows of fealty to him as our kha khan, and promise obedience to his will, assuring him that we are no threat to him, but only his servants.”

  Now Temujin’s camp raged furiously, and many of them started to their feet. But again he subdued them with a gesture and a look.

  Borchu continued, gaining strength from the conviction of his own wisdom: “A reasonable man will easily perceive this is the best way. War will destroy us. In peace, we can gain strength. We have all that we wish. Now, we must lose all by one reckless and stupid gesture. An oath of fealty costs nothing. A bare sword is the signal for our complete destruction.”

  There was a sudden heavy silence after he had ceased to speak. Temujin sat quietly on his horseskin, seeming to ponder. His face was calm, his manner quiet. He appeared to be weighing every one of Borchu’s words, and his camp breathlessly gazed at him and awaited his verdict.

  Finally, he turned to those loyal to him, and said:

  “What is your opinion?”

  They burst out in a furious chorus: “We say, let us have battle! And we extend to thee, our lord, the baton of leadership, to lead us as thou wilt!”

  “Yes! Yes!” shouted their followers.

  Th
e wildest excitement prevailed. Men started to their feet, exultantly brandishing their sabers. They laughed shortly and excitedly. They surrounded Temujin, knelt before him, touching his feet with their heads. They seemed possessed. They flung arms about each other in rough fellowship. Their eyes blazed.

  But Borchu’s camp were uneasily and sullenly silent.

  Temujin smilingly acknowledged the vows and eagerness of his followers. Then he rose and faced all of them, lifting his hand for silence. He began to speak in a low and penetrating voice, fixing each man separately with his glowing eye:

  “It was prophesied at my birth that I would be emperor of all the peoples of the barrens, the desert and the steppes. It was said by the priests that the Eternal Blue Sky had given me the destiny of those who live in the felt yurts. It was ordained that I would lead them victoriously, and establish them as lords over all of High Asia, that empires of men, wheresoever they dwelt, would be subject to me and my people. That I would be the mightiest of all the lords of all generations, the Perfect Warrior, the Mighty Manslayer.”

  He paused. His kinsmen exchanged glances of dark furtive amusement at this boastfulness. But they were uneasy. There was such a fateful and formidable look about this young Mongol, standing tall and slender before them, his body like an upright flame, vibrating and shaking, for all his stillness.

  “I believe this!” he cried strongly. “I believe that no one can oppose me! My life is a vindication of the prophesies! I was a fugitive beggar, cast out, and now I am lord of all those who dwelt between the three rivers!

  “Who dareth challenge the prophecies? Who dareth mock the Sky?

  “And now, I swear unto you that though we are challenged, that though others would destroy us, I shall maintain for you the places of our ancestors, the customs of our peoples, the lands of our fathers, and will add unto them the empires of the world!”

  His flaming exaltation infected his followers. They groaned; they laughed; they wept. They seized on each other, flinging their arms about their neighbors’ shoulders. They looked at Temujin with exultant eyes, and screamed out their defiance of all those who would oppose him.

  And the Bourchikoun, doubting and fearful, were mesmerized and shaken. They wet their silent and fallen lips. They breathed heavily.

  Temujin lifted his arm. Every man was transfixed by that awful and luminous face, in which the eyes flamed like coals.

  “Ye shall be my lords, my paladins, my Banners, my Torrents! Wheresoever we ride, there shall we subjugate! Wheresoever we put our feet, there shall the historians and the poets sing to the future ages of our conquest! We shall not lose! We shall conquer! The world is ours!”

  The Bourchikoun, who were reasonable and intelligent men, were incredulous and disordered. Their minds told them that they were listening to the words of a shaggy and homeless fool, infected with insanity. Their reason assured them that they were hearing the cries of one afflicted with madness. They felt their stable world caught up in a whirl of unreality and murderous folly, in which all values were changed by some supernatural horror and imbecility.

  And yet, their hearts shuddered. Their reason was stricken into silence by the look and the manner of this adventurer, this febrile screamer of mad words. Despite themselves, their souls were seized in the furious and violent dervish-dance of his visions. What if he doth speak the truth? they asked themselves, dumbly. What if all things are known to him? What if the world is indeed standing on its head, and he can accomplish this incredible miracle, this reasonless plot? What if madness is more valid than reason, and facts less than prophecies?

  They looked at him, disturbed and shaken to the soul. They bit their lips; they audibly panted; sweat covered their faces. And Temujin, seeing all this, with an ironical and mocking smile, waited.

  Then, very slowly, as though hypnotized, Borchu rose, not removing his fixed and glaring eye from Temujin. He stood before the young Mongol, swaying slightly. And then, as a loud shout broke from all the others, he knelt before Temujin, and, like a man moving in a reasonless but impelling dream, he touched Temujin’s feet with his forehead. And then he knelt like this, as though asleep, or dead.

  The others fell into silence, stopping where they were, with upraised hand or open mouth, overcome with the awesomeness of what they saw. And the Bourchikoun gazed at their leader, like those who were seeing something portentous and not to be believed, overcome with a sort of incredulous horror. But the spell was upon them, the mad enchantment. One by one they rose, and one by one, in utter silence, they knelt before Temujin, and touched his feet with their foreheads.

  Then the maddest exaltation seized every man. The yurt trembled under the fury of the shouts and cries, under the din of stamping feet. The lamps leapt on their tables. The felt walls vibrated. Every man wanted to touch Temujin, to, partake of his mystical strength, to be infected with his indomitable courage and power. And he stood among them, smiling faintly, looking at them with his fiery green eyes, submitting to their touches, their embraces, their screamed vows of obedience and fealty.

  He accepted the baton of leadership. He had hoped, in the violent excitement, to be named their kha khan, the Emperor of All Men. But the lords of the barrens were still jealous of their individual authority and their independence. However, he was content. All the rest would come later, when he was victorious. He was content, now, just to be their leader. He knew the fierce pride of each small khan, and was wise enough to know that this was not the time to violate it.

  When some measure of sanity and order had been restored, he sat among them and laid before them his plans.

  “Only one course is open to us. We must rely upon lightning battle, upon surprise, upon swift mobility. We must strike unexpectedly and with all our strength, thus demoralizing our enemies. Audacity and boldness are our allies. We must risk everything upon a few disintegrating blows, hurled with all our power.

  “We must attack our foes in their own provinces. There, we have nothing to lose, but they will fight cautiously. For they will be among their own treasures, and will fear ruthlessness which will mean destruction of their treasures. Men fighting among their own possessions are already half beaten. We have nothing to lose, and can fight with every atom of our bodies.

  “When men see their treasures destroyed, they are stricken to the heart, and their arms are weakened. Cities fall more easily than battle camps. We must count upon demoralization. Too, our foes are already fat and decadent. We are hardened by our hardy life, and by strife. But they will prefer the sparing of their possessions to a ruinous victory.”

  “Again, I say we have nothing to lose, and everything to gain. And being of one mind and soul, and having only one resolution: to conquer, we shall be victorious.”

  And then he laid before them, with a meticulous detail, all the amazing plans he had previously outlined to himself. They listened, overcome with amazement and admiration, their excitement renewed. They already felt like conquerors. They found difficulty in restraining themselves. But Temujin was as cold as ice, and inexorable as death. He felt no excitement. He was too sure of himself.

  In that yurt, in that tent upon the empty and limitless barrens, the fate of a whole world was decided, and history, standing, waiting, lifted her pen and began to write. She marvelled to herself that these barbarians could so decide the destiny of millions of men, and then she recalled to herself that it was only the same old story, the same old bloody tale.

  It was much later, when the moon was beginning to wane upon the exhausted but still febrile men, that Temujin spoke of Jamuga. And his khans listened, aghast, at the story of this betrayal of their lord by his own anda, his own sworn brother. They watched his face, so pale and composed, and listened to his calm emotionless words.

  “If there is one treacherous general in an army, one traitorous officer, that army is already in danger. Jamuga Sechen hath not only betrayed me, he hath betrayed you, and all our people. He is our danger, our rotten spot, our enemy. And so, he mu
st die. Our first campaign must be an assault upon him. It will be a speedy victory, for he will have no one to help him. Again, surprise and swiftness must be our guide. When he is destroyed, we can then proceed.”

  There were many, remembering the stories of the love between the two men, and the passionate devotion, who listened and watched curiously.

  But if they expected to see any sign of grief or sorrow upon Temujin’s face, they were mistaken. For they saw no emotion there, no torment. He spoke of Jamuga as he would speak of a dog who had attacked him.

  And then they knew that there was more to this plan of campaign against Jamuga than the mere destruction of a traitor.

  There was some dark and agonized vengeance to be attained, some violation to be washed out in blood, and that there was no joy, but only anguish, to be gained by Temujin.

  Chapter 18

  Bortei’s triumphant malice was unrestrained, when she learned of the treachery of Jamuga Sechen.

  “My lord!” she cried to Temujin, laughing so that her two rows of white teeth glistened like those of a she-wolf’s. “Did I not tell thee so? But thou wouldst not listen to me. Thou didst think I had some secret antagonism against thy beloved anda. I was a fool, thou didst say! But lo! it is not I who am the fool!”

  Hatred for Jamuga was a vivid glare in her eyes. The prospect of revenge on this man maddened her, as the sight of blood maddens a wild beast. She could hardly contain herself for glee.

  “Thou wilt bring him here, to suffer his punishment?” she implored, eagerly. She imagined Jamuga being boiled in hot oil, being torn apart by plunging horses, and her face flamed and swelled, and her nostrils flared wide.

  Temujin looked at her, but said nothing. She could see no answer to her words in his secret and inscrutable expression. But something in his regard of her gave her a momentary qualm.

  It was then that Kurelen and Houlun entered Temujin’s yurt. Temujin was closely examining his articles of warfare. Kurelen noted that he seemed abstracted. He had heard Bortei’s last words, and Temujin’s manner sent a pang of new hope through the old cripple. His sister had heard too. The magnificent and aging woman cast a contemptuous and loathing glance at her son’s wife, and said: