Empire of Silver (15 page)

‘It is here,’ Tolui whispered, then repeated himself as no one heard him.

Mohrol looked up at him and his eyes flashed with sudden understanding.

‘The mare that struck you,’ the shaman said in a whisper. His eyes were dark, but there was something like compassion in his face.

Tolui nodded, mute.

‘What?’ Ogedai broke in, looking up sharply. ‘Do not even think of that, shaman. Tolui is not part of this.’ He spoke firmly, but the terror of the grave was still on him and his hands trembled on the wine cup. Tolui saw.

‘You are my older brother, Ogedai,’ Tolui said. ‘More, you are the khan, the man our father chose.’ He smiled and rubbed his hand across his face, looking almost boyish for a moment. ‘He told me once that I would be the one to remind you of things you have forgotten. That I would guide you as khan and be your right arm.’

‘This is madness,’ Khasar said, his voice tight with suppressed rage. ‘Let me spill this shaman’s blood first.’

‘Very
well
, general!’ Mohrol snapped suddenly. He stepped forward to face Khasar with his arms open. ‘I will pay that price. You have spilled my blood already this morning. Have the rest if you wish. It will not change the omens. It will not change what must be done.’

Khasar touched his hand to where his knife lay under his belt, tucked into the grubby folds of cloth, but Mohrol did not
look away from him. The paste he had consumed had stolen away any fear, and instead he saw Khasar’s love for Ogedai and Tolui, coupled with his frustration. The old general could face any enemy, but he was lost and confused by such a decision. After a time, Mohrol dropped his arms and stood patiently, waiting for Khasar to see the inevitable.

In the end, it was Tolui’s voice that broke the silence.

‘I have much to do, uncle. You should leave me now. I have to see my son and have letters written to my wife.’ His face was stiff with pain, but his voice remained steady as Khasar glanced at him.

‘Your father would not have given up,’ Khasar said gruffly. ‘Believe me, as one who knew him better than any man.’

He was not as certain as he seemed. In some moods, Genghis would have thrown his life away without a thought, enjoying the grand gesture. In others, he would have fought to the last furious breath, doomed or not. Khasar wished with all his heart that his brother Kachiun were there. Kachiun would have found an answer, a way through the thorns. It was just ill luck that Kachiun was riding with Tsubodai and Batu into the north. For once, Khasar was alone.

He felt the pressure from the younger men as they looked to him in hope for some stroke that would cut through the decision. All he could think of was to kill the shaman. That too was a useless act, he realised. Mohrol believed his own words, and for all Khasar knew, the man spoke the perfect truth. He closed his eyes and strained to hear Kachiun’s voice. What would he say? Someone had to die for Ogedai. Khasar raised his head, his eyes opening.

‘I will be your sacrifice, shaman. Take my life for the khan’s. I can do that much, for my brother’s memory, for my brother’s son.’

‘No,’ Mohrol said, turning away from him. ‘You are not the
one, not today. The omens are clear. The choice is as simple as it is hard.’

Tolui smiled wearily as the shaman spoke. He came close to Khasar and the two men embraced for a moment while Ogedai and the shaman looked on.

‘Sunset, Mohrol,’ Tolui said, looking back at the shaman. ‘Give me a day to prepare myself.’

‘My lord, the omens are set. We do not know how long the khan has left before his spirit is taken.’

Ogedai said nothing as Tolui looked at him. His younger brother’s jaw tensed as he struggled with himself.

‘I will not run, brother,’ he whispered. ‘But I am not ready for the knife, not yet. Give me the day and I will bless you from the other side.’

Ogedai nodded weakly, his expression tortured. He wanted to speak out, to send Mohrol away and dare the malevolent spirits to come back for him. He could not. A wisp of memory of his helplessness came to him. He could not suffer it again.

‘Sunset, brother,’ Ogedai said at last.

Without another word, Tolui strode out of the ger, ducking to pass through the small door into the clean air and sun.

Around him, the vast camp was arrayed in all directions, busy and alive with the noise of horses and women, children and warriors. Tolui’s heart thumped with pain at such a pleasant, normal scene. He realised with a stab of despair that it was his last morning. He would not see the sun rise again. For a time, he simply stood and watched it, holding one hand above his eyes to shade them from its brilliant glare.

Tolui led a small group of ten riders to the river that ran by the camp. His son Mongke rode at his right shoulder, the young man’s face pale with strain. Two slave women ran at Tolui’s stirrups. He dismounted on the banks and the slaves removed his armour and underclothes. Naked, he walked into the cold water, feeling his feet sink into the cool mud. Slowly he washed himself, using silt to work the grease from his skin, then dipping under the surface to sluice himself down.

His female slaves both stripped to enter the water with him. They shivered as they worked bone tools under his fingernails to clean them. Both women stood up to their waists in the water, their breasts firm with goosebumps. There was no lightness or laughter from them and Tolui was not aroused by the sight, whereas any other day might have had him playing in the shallows and splashing to make them squeal.

With care and concentration, Tolui accepted a flask of clear oil and rubbed it into his hair. The prettier of his slaves tied
it into a black tail that hung down his back. His skin was very white at the nape of his neck, where the hair protected it from the sun.

Mongke stood and watched his father. The other minghaans were senior men who had seen battle a thousand times. Next to them, he felt young and inexperienced, but they could not look at him. They were quiet with respect for Tolui, and Mongke knew he had to maintain the cold face for his father’s honour. It would have shamed the general to have his son weeping, so Mongke stood like a stone, his face hard. Yet he could not take his eyes off his father. Tolui had told them his decision and they were all bruised by it, helpless in the face of his will and the khan’s need.

One of them gave a low whistle when they saw Khasar ride out from another part of the camp. The general had earned their respect, but they were still willing to block him from the river as he came close. On that day, they did not care that he was the brother of Genghis.

Tolui had been standing with blank eyes as his hair was tied. The whistle brought him out of himself and he nodded to Mongke to let Khasar through, watching as his uncle dismounted and came to the bank.

‘You will need a friend to help you in this,’ Khasar said.

Mongke’s stare bored into the back of Khasar’s head, but he did not notice.

Tolui looked up in silence from the river and finally dipped his head in acceptance, striding out of the water. His slaves came with him and he stood patiently as they rubbed him down. The sun warmed him and some of his tension seeped away. He looked at the armour that lay waiting, a pile of iron and leather. He had worn something like it for all of his adult life, but suddenly it seemed an alien thing. Of Chin design, it did not suit his mood.

‘I will not wear the armour,’ he said to Mongke, who was
standing ready for orders. ‘Have it bundled up. Perhaps in time you will wear it for me.’

Mongke struggled with his grief as he bent and gathered the pieces into his arms. Khasar looked on with approval, pleased to see how Tolui’s son kept his dignity. The father’s pride was shining in his eyes, though Mongke turned away without seeing it.

Tolui watched as his women yanked on clothes to cover their nakedness. He sent one barefoot over the grass with instructions to find a particular deel and leggings from his ger, as well as new boots. She ran well and more than one of the men turned to watch her legs flash in the sun.

‘I am trying to believe this is really happening,’ Tolui said softly. Khasar looked at him and reached out to grip his bare shoulder in silent support as he went on. ‘When I saw you coming, I hoped that something had changed. I think some part of me will expect a shout, a reprieve, up to the last moments. It is a strange thing, the way we torture ourselves.’

‘Your father would be proud of you, I know that,’ Khasar replied. He felt useless, unable to find the right words.

Strangely, it was Tolui who saw his uncle’s distress and he spoke kindly. ‘I think I will be better on my own for the moment, uncle. I have my son as a comfort to me. He will take my messages home. I will need you later on, at sunset.’ He sighed. ‘I will need you to stand by me then, without a doubt. Now though, I still have words to write and orders to give.’

‘Very well, Tolui. I will come back as the sun sets. I tell you one thing: when this is over, I am going to kill that shaman.’

Tolui chuckled. ‘I would expect nothing else, uncle. I will need a servant in the next world. He would do very well.’

The young slave returned bearing an armful of clean, woollen clothes. Bare-chested, Tolui pulled rough leggings up his thighs, concealing his manhood from view. The slave tied the thong
at his waist while Tolui stood with his arms out, staring into the distance. His women had begun to weep and neither man rebuked them for it. Tolui was pleased to hear the crying of women for him. He dared not think of Sorhatani and how she would react. He watched as Khasar mounted his horse once more, the older man silent with misery as he held up his right hand and turned to ride away.

Tolui sat on the grass and the slaves knelt before him. The boots were new, soft leather. The women bound his feet in untreated wool and then pulled the boots over them, tying them with quick, neat movements. Finally, he rose.

The deel robe was the simplest he owned, a lightly padded cloth with almost no decoration beyond buttons shaped like tiny bells. It was an old piece that had once belonged to Genghis and it was marked with the stitching of the Wolf tribe. Tolui ran his hands over the coarse design and found he could take comfort from it. His father had worn it and perhaps there was a hint of his old strength left in the cloth.

‘Walk with me for a time, Mongke,’ he called to his son. ‘There are things I want you to remember for me.’

The sun dipped on the last day, spreading a cool light that slowly lost its colours, so that the plains softened into grey. Sitting cross-legged on the grass, Tolui watched the sun touch the hills in the west. It had been a good day. He had spent some of it rutting with his slaves, losing himself for a time in the pleasures of the flesh. He had appointed his second in command to lead the tuman. Lakota was a good man and loyal. He would not shame Tolui’s memory, and in time, when Mongke had more experience, he would step aside for the son.

Ogedai had come to him in the afternoon, saying that he would appoint Sorhatani the head of Tolui’s family, with all the rights her husband had known. She would retain his wealth
and the authority over his sons. On his return home, Mongke would be given Tolui’s other wives and slaves as his own, protecting them from those who would take advantage. The khan’s shadow would keep his family safe. It was the least Ogedai could offer, but Tolui felt lighter after hearing it, less afraid. He only wished he could speak to Sorhatani and his other sons one last time. Dictating letters to his scribes was not the same and he wished that he could hold his wife, just once, that he could crush her to him and breathe in the scent of her hair.

He sighed to himself. It was hard to find peace as the sun went down. He tried to hold on to every moment, but his mind betrayed him, drifting and coming back to clarity with a start. Time slipped like oil through his hands and he could not hold a single instant of it.

The tumans had gathered in ranks to witness his offering. Ahead of him on the grass, Ogedai stood with Khasar and Mohrol. Mongke waited slightly apart from the other three. Only he looked directly at his father, a constant gaze that was the sole sign of the horror and disbelief that he felt.

Tolui took a deep breath, enjoying the scent of horses and sheep on the evening breeze. He was pleased he had chosen the simple garb of a herdsman. Armour would have choked him, confined him in iron. Instead, he felt loose-limbed, clean and calm.

He walked towards the small group of men. Mongke stared at him like a stunned calf. Tolui reached out and drew his son into a brief embrace, releasing him before the shuddering he felt against his chest turned into sobs.

‘I am ready,’ he said.

Ogedai lowered himself to sit cross-legged on one side of him, Khasar on the other. Mongke hesitated, before sitting to one side.

There was a certain shared animosity as they all watched
Mohrol set a taper to brass pots. Thin trails of smoke dragged their way across the plain and the shaman began to sing.

Mohrol was bare-chested, his skin marked in stripes of red and dark blue. His eyes looked out from a mask that seemed barely human. The four men faced west, and as the shaman worked his way through six verses of the song of death, they stared at the setting sun, slowly eaten by the horizon until there was just a fat line of gold.

Mohrol stamped the ground as he finished his verse to the earth mother. He jabbed a knife into the air as he called on the sky father. His voice grew in strength, a double tone from his nose and throat that was one of the earliest sounds Tolui could remember. He listened distractedly, unable to look away from the golden thread that bound him to life.

As the verses to the four winds ended, Mohrol passed a knife into Tolui’s cupped hands. Tolui stared at the blue-black blade in the last light. He found the calm he needed. Everything around him was sharp and defined and he breathed deeply as he pressed the blade against his skin.

Ogedai reached out and clasped his left shoulder. Khasar did the same with his right. Tolui felt their strength, their grief, and it steadied the last of his fear.

He looked at Mongke and saw the young man’s eyes were brimming with tears. There was no shame in it.

‘Look after your mother, boy,’ Tolui said, then looked down and took a deep breath. ‘It is time,’ he said. ‘I am a fitting sacrifice for the khan. I am tall and strong and young. I will take the place of my brother.’

The sun vanished in the west and Tolui pushed the knife into his chest, finding the heart. All the air in his lungs came out in a long, rasping breath. He found he could not breathe in and struggled to control his panic. He knew the cuts that had to be made. Mohrol had explained every detail of the ritual. His son was watching and he had to have the strength.

Tolui’s body had gone tight and hard, every muscle straining as he sipped air back in and wrenched the blade between his ribs, cutting his heart. The pain was a burning brand in him, but he pulled out the knife and looked in astonishment at the rush of blood that came with it. His strength was fading, and as he began to fall forward Khasar reached out and took his hand in fingers that were impossibly strong. Tolui turned his eyes to him in gratitude, unable to speak. Khasar guided his hand higher, holding the grip closed so he could not drop the blade.

Tolui sagged as Khasar helped him draw the edge across his neck. He was frozen, a man of ice, as his warm blood drained into the grass. He did not see the shaman hold a bowl to his throat. His head lolled forward and Khasar gripped him by the back of the neck. Tolui could feel the warm touch as he died.

Mohrol offered the brimming bowl to Ogedai. The khan knelt with his head down, staring into darkness. He did not let go of Tolui’s body, so that it remained upright, held between the two men.

‘You must drink, my lord, while I finish,’ Mohrol said.

Ogedai heard and took the bowl in his left hand, tipping it back. He choked on the warm blood of his brother and some of it dribbled down his chin and neck. Mohrol said nothing as the khan steeled himself and fought the urge to vomit. When it was empty, Ogedai tossed the bowl away into the gloom. Mohrol began to sing the six verses once again from the beginning, drawing the spirits close to witness the sacrifice.

Before he was halfway through, Mohrol heard Ogedai vomiting onto the grass. It was already too dark to see and the shaman ignored the sounds.

Sorhatani rode hard, calling ‘Chuh!’ and forcing her mare to gallop across the brown plains. Her sons galloped with her and,
with the remounts and pack animals, they made a fine plume of dust, rising behind them. Under the hot sun, Sorhatani rode bare-armed in a yellow silk tunic and deerskin leggings, with soft boots. She was grubby and she had not bathed in a long time, but she exulted as her horse flew across the ancient land of the tribes.

The grass was very dry, the valleys thirsty. Drought had drained all but the widest rivers. To refill the waterskins, they had to dig into the river clay until water seeped into the hole, brackish and full of silt. Silk had proved its value yet again to strain muck and wriggling insects out of the precious liquid.

As she rode, she saw the pale bones of sheep and oxen, the white shapes cracked to shards by wolves or foxes. To anyone else, it might not have seemed a great reward for her husband to be given such a dry land. Yet Sorhatani understood there were always hard years there, that such a land made strong men and stronger women. Her sons had already learned to eke out their supplies of water and not gulp it as if there would always be a stream within reach. The winters froze and the summers burned, but there was freedom in its immensity – and the rains would come again. Her childhood memories were of hills like rippled green silk, stretching away to the horizon on all sides. The land endured the droughts and the cold, but it would be reborn.

In the distance, she could see the mountain of Deli’un-Boldakh, a peak of almost mystical significance in the legends of the tribes. Genghis had been born somewhere near that place. His father Yesugei had ridden with his bondsmen there, protecting his herds from raiders through the coldest months.

Sorhatani kept her eyes on a different crag, the red rock that Genghis had climbed with his brothers when the world was smaller and all the tribes were at each other’s throats. Her three sons kept pace with her and the red hill grew before them. There, Genghis and Kachiun had found an eagle’s nest and
brought down two perfect chicks to show their father. Sorhatani could imagine their excitement, even see their faces in the features of her own sons.

She only wished Mongke could have been there, though she knew that was a mother’s foolishness. Mongke had to learn to lead, to campaign with his father and uncles. The warriors would not respect an officer who knew nothing about terrain or tactics.