The Khan Series 5-Book Bundle: Genghis: Birth of an Empire, Genghis: Bones of the Hills, Genghis: Lords of the Bow, Khan: Empire of Silver, Conqueror (190 page)

X
uan looked out of the windows in a long cloister as he walked. Each one revealed a view of Hangzhou, with the river leading out into the bay. He had been moved often since coming into Sung lands, as if they could not think what to do with him. On rare occasions, he was even allowed to sail on the river, and he saw his wives and children twice a year, in strained meetings, with Sung officials watching on all sides.

The cloister ran along the spine of yet another official building. Xuan amused himself by timing his steps so that his left foot hit the stone at the center of each pool of sunlight. He did not expect great news from the summons. Over the years, he had realized the Sung officials delighted in demonstrating their power over him. Too many times to count, his presence had been demanded in some private office, only to find the official had no connection with the court. On two occasions, the men involved had brought their mistresses or children to observe as they fussed with permissions and the allocation of his small income. The meeting itself was irrelevant. They had just wanted to parade the Chin emperor, the Son of Heaven himself, for their wide-eyed dependents.

Xuan was surprised when the small group of officials did not stop at the usual branching corridors. The apartments of more important men lay beyond, and Xuan controlled the first stirring of excitement
as they went farther and farther still. More than one door was open, as dedicated scholars and bureaucrats labored inside, peering out at the footsteps they heard. Xuan took a grip on his hopes. They had been dashed too many times to expect his letters to have been answered at last, though he still wrote every day.

Despite his forced calm, he felt his heart beat faster as the bowing servants brought him to the door of the man who administered the examinations for almost all the posts in Hangzhou. Sung Kim had taken the name of the royal house as his own, though Xuan suspected he had been born a commoner. As one who controlled the funds Xuan was given to maintain his small household, Sung Kim had received many of his letters over the years. Not a single one had been answered.

The servants announced him and then stood back with their heads bowed. Xuan walked into the room, pleasantly surprised to see how it opened up before him. The administrator lived in luxury, amidst sculpture and art of better than average taste. Xuan smiled to himself at the thought of complimenting Sung Kim. In such a way, he could force the odious little man to make him a present of whatever he admired, but it was just a spiteful thought. His upbringing would not allow him to be rude, despite his circumstances.

While other servants trotted away to announce his arrival, Xuan wandered from one painting to another, taking care not to linger too long on each. Time was something he had in abundance, and he knew Sung Kim would make him wait.

To his intense surprise, Sung Kim himself came out of the inner rooms almost immediately. Xuan inclined his head and accepted an equally brief bow from the other man. He endured the polite observances with his usual restraint, showing no sign of his mounting impatience.

At last he was guided into the inner rooms and tea was brought for him. Xuan settled himself comfortably, waiting.

“I have extraordinary news, Son of Heaven,” Sung Kim began. He was a very old man, with white hair and wrinkled skin, but his
own excitement was visible. Xuan raised an eyebrow as if his heart did not beat harder with every moment. It was all he could do to remain silent.

“The Mongol khan is dead, Son of Heaven,” Sung Kim went on.

Xuan smiled, then chuckled, confounding the older man. “Is that all?” he said bitterly.

“I thought … I must offer my apologies, Son of Heaven. I thought the news would bring you great joy. Does it not signal the end of your time of exile?” Sung Kim shook his head in confusion and tried again. “Your enemy is dead, Your Majesty. The khan has fallen.”

“I meant no offense, Sung Kim. I have outlived two Mongol khans and that is indeed welcome news.”

“Then … I do not understand. Does it not fill your heart with happiness?”

Xuan sipped the tea, which was excellent.

“You do not know them as I do,” he said. “They will not mourn the khan. Instead, they will raise one of his sons and they will look for new enemies. One day, Sung Kim, they will come here, to this city. Perhaps I will still be a prisoner here when that time comes. Perhaps I will stare down from these very corridors as they bring their armies to the city walls.”

“Please, Son of Heaven. You are the guest of the emperor, never a prisoner. You must not say such things.”

Xuan grimaced and set his cup down gently.

“A guest can walk away when he pleases. A guest can ride without guards. Let us be honest with each other, Sung Kim.”

“I am sorry, Your Majesty. I had hoped to bring you joy, not sadness.”

“Be assured, you have done both today. Now, unless you wish to discuss my written requests, I will return to my rooms.”

The administrator bowed his head. “I cannot grant your desire to see your soldiers, Son of Heaven. Such things are far beyond my small powers.”

Xuan rose from his seat. “Very well, but when the new khan
comes, they will be needed, strong and fit. You will need
every
man then, I think.”

It was Sung Kim’s turn to smile. The city of Hangzhou was ancient and powerful. It lay far from the border with the old Chin lands. The idea of an army ever coming close enough to cause concern was amusing.

T
he third son of Genghis was Great Khan for just twelve years, from
A.D
. 1229 to 1241. At a time when the Mongols were sweeping west into Europe, Ogedai’s death would be one of the crucial turning points of history. Western Europe could not have stood against them. The medieval castles there were no more daunting than walled Chin cities, and in the field, the Mongol style of fast-striking tactical warfare would have been practically unstoppable. It is no exaggeration to say that the future of the West changed when Ogedai’s heart failed.

We know Ogedai was still young and died only fourteen years after his father. We do
not
know why he built Karakorum—the son of a khan who not only despised cities, but who had spent his entire life demonstrating how weak a defense they actually were. Yet Ogedai built a city as the throne of empire. Contemporary descriptions of it do survive—for example, the words of a Christian friar, William of Rubruk. The silver tree was historical fact, as was its having shamanist temples, Islamic mosques, and at least one Nestorian Christian church.

It is hard to explain why Ogedai would build such a thing at all. One explanation that fits the facts is that he was a little like Cecil Rhodes, a man whose heart pain began when he was as young as sixteen. Before a heart attack finally killed Rhodes at forty-eight, he had built an empire for himself in Africa: a man driven to leave a
mark, always knowing that he had little time to do it. Ogedai may well have had the same sense of urgency.

The second question is why he might build a city so influenced by those of the Chin—cities he had often seen burn. There, the influence of Yao Shu can be seen. Though Yao Shu was a real adviser to Ogedai, the character I have rendered is in fact an amalgam of two Chinese Buddhists from the period. I have not yet finished his tale. Worried by the khan’s heavy drinking, Yao Shu showed Ogedai how wine corroded an iron bottle. It is also true that Ogedai agreed to halve the number of wine cups he drank each day, only to have cups made that were twice the size. Buddhist advisers brought a sense of Chinese civilization to the Mongol court, subtly influencing each of the khans. As a result, cities would one day open their gates to Kublai as they never would have to his grandfather.

The Three Games of Men (Naadam) in Mongolia are wrestling, archery, and horse racing. The Naadam festival is indeed much older than the time of Genghis, though in previous centuries it was also a chance for tribes to horse-trade, mix bloodlines, gamble, and be told the future in divinations. The modern Naadam festival has women taking part in archery and the races, though not wrestling, which is still the men’s sole preserve. The description of the archery wall is accurate. Shots are taken from around a hundred paces, and archers compete in groups of ten, the smallest unit of Genghis’s army. Each archer has four arrows, and rather than judge individual shots, they must hit a certain number of targets to succeed. It is interesting that the archery tradition is one of teams, bearing in mind the martial nature of the sport and the vital role it played in the armies of Genghis Khan.

The horse races of the festival, which take place over three days, are all endurance races. In comparison to the West, endurance was the quality that made the khan’s armies mobile, and again it is interesting to see how that has remained the preeminent quality of equine greatness, rather than a burst of speed from a horse bred and built like a greyhound.

I have taken a small liberty with history in including a footrace. There’s no record of it, but it would have been a possibility. I have no doubt other events have come and gone before the current form, just as the modern Olympics used to include a tug-of-war competition from 1900 to 1920, won twice by Britain.

It is sometimes believed that Genghis left a will. If such a document ever existed, it has not survived. If it was an oral will, we do not know if it was given at the point of death or long before. Some versions of history have Genghis dying almost instantly, while others have him lingering for days after a fall or a wound, where he could easily have arranged his own legacy. Either way, it is generally accepted that it was Genghis Khan’s desire to have Chagatai inherit a vast khanate, while Tolui received the Mongol homeland. As the official heir, Ogedai inherited the northern Chin territories and whatever else he could win for himself. I have put that distribution in Ogedai’s hands, in part because it would have been his final choice, no matter what his father intended. If Ogedai had executed Chagatai then, the bloodlines of that part of the world would have been very different, down to the present day.

Instead, Chagatai Khan died just a few months after Ogedai in 1242. The exact manner of his death is unknown, though the incredibly fortuitous timing allowed me to write and indeed suspect that he was killed.

The earliest written formula for gunpowder is Chinese, from around 1044. It was certainly used in siege warfare during the period of Ogedai’s khanate. Handheld cannon of the sort I have described have been found dating back to Kublai Khan’s period. One of the earliest recorded uses was by the Mongols in the Middle East in 1260, but they certainly went back further than that.

They were the cutting edge of military technology for the period, effectively a hugely powerful hand weapon that fired stones or even a metal ball. Iron vessels filled with gunpowder and lit with a
fuse would have made effective shrapnel grenades. We do know the Mongols encountered them first against the Chin and Sung—and were quick to adopt such terrifying weapons. In fact, it was the vast territory covered by Mongol armies that led to the proliferation of such weapons across the landmass.

That said, the formula for Chinese gunpowder was poor in saltpeter, so lacked some of the explosive punch we associate with the material. A rush of flame would have been more common, with batches of the mixture varying enormously among makers, regions, and periods.

The extraordinary incident that led to the death of Tolui is from
The Secret History of the Mongols
. On his only campaign in northern China, Ogedai fell ill and “lost [the use of] mouth and tongue”—a massive stroke, or perhaps grand mal epilepsy.

Mongol shamans and soothsayers made divinations, assuming that the spirits of the Chin were attacking the khan. They asked to be shown the correct sacrifice, and in response, Ogedai spasmed and suffered violent cramps. Using that response, they asked if a kinsman was needed. Ogedai then came round and drank water, asking to be told what had happened.

Prince Tolui did not have to be asked. The man who was father to Kublai and Mongke, both of whom would be khans, willingly gave his life to save his brother.

On the subject of slaughtering horses, I took the opportunity to speak to slaughtermen who had killed many hundreds of elderly horses over the years. In the preparation of kosher or halal meat, the animal needs to remain alive for the heart to pump out the blood. They begin by cutting the throat. One man I spoke to wanted a much faster kill, so he preferred an initial thrust to the heart, then drew the blade across the throat. Between 6 and 10 percent of a horse’s body weight will be blood. It’s a rough estimate, but in a Mongolian pony, that would be around forty pints of blood.

As the
Secret History
records, Tolui took poison rather than die by the blade, but I changed his ending. The bloody sacrifice of animals
was part of the attempt to save Ogedai, and the two events seemed to fit together. His son Mongke was certainly present, though no exchange is recorded between them.

A quick note on the subject of distances: By Ogedai’s time, a network of way stations had been set up wherever Mongol influence extended. Set twenty-five miles apart on major roads, they were well furnished. With regular changes of horses, an urgent message could be taken a hundred miles in a day, if necessary by the same man. The riders wore belts of bells, so the way stations could hear them coming and have water, food, and a fresh mount waiting. A thousand miles in ten days was not only possible, but commonplace. Such lines of communication made the armies of the khans modern in a sense that no other force of the century could manage.