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 (219 page)

“Very well, just for a little while before you return to your studies,” he said.

He waved his arm and they scattered before it, whooping in excitement. The device had been built to the specifications of the great Moslem scientist Ibn al-Haitham. “Qamara” was merely the word for “dark room,” but the name had stuck. Only a few servants went with him as he walked along a corridor to the room where it had been constructed. The children ran ahead in their excitement, telling those who had not already seen it everything they could remember.

It was a room in itself, a large structure of black cloth that was as dark as night inside. Al-Mustasim gazed on the black cube fondly, as proud as if he had invented it himself.

“Which one of you will be first?” he asked.

They leapt and shouted their names and he picked one of his daughters, a little girl named Suri. She stood shivering with delight as he placed her in the right spot. As the curtain fell, plunging them all into darkness, the children shouted nervously. His servants brought a flame and soon little Suri was lit brightly by shuttered lamps. She preened in the attention and he chuckled to see her.

“The rest of you go through that partition now. Close your eyes and do not open them until I say.”

They obeyed him, feeling their way through the layer of black cloth by touch.

“Are you all ready?” he asked.

The light from the lamps on Suri would pass through a tiny hole in the cloth. He did not fully understand how light could carry her inverted image, but there she would be, inside the room with them in light and shadow. It was a marvel and he smiled as he told them to open their eyes.

He heard them gasp in wonder, calling to each other to see.

Before al-Mustasim could organize another to take Suri’s place, he heard the voice of his vizier, Ahriman, speaking to the servants outside. Al-Mustasim frowned, the moment of simple joy spoiled. The man would not leave him in peace. Al-Mustasim sighed as Ahriman cleared his throat outside the qamara, summoning his attention.

“I am sorry to disturb you, Caliph. I have news you must hear.”

Al-Mustasim left the children to their games, already growing raucous in the dark tent. He blinked as he came back into the sunlit
rooms and took a moment to send a couple of his servants inside to make sure the boys did not break anything.

“Well? Has anything changed since yesterday, or the day before? Are we still surrounded by infidels, by armies?”

“We are, Caliph. At dawn, they sent another flight of arrows over the walls.”

He held one in his hand with the scroll still tight around it. He had already unwrapped another and held it out to be read. Al-Mustasim waved it away as if its touch would corrupt him.

“Another demand to surrender, I am certain. How many of these have I seen now? He threatens and promises, offers peace and then annihilation. It changes nothing, Ahriman.”

“In this message he says he will accept tribute, Caliph. We cannot continue to ignore him. This Hulegu is already famous for his greed. In every town that he destroys, his men are there, asking: ‘Where is the gold? Where are the jewels?’ He does not care that Baghdad is a sacred city, only that it has treasure rooms filled with metals.”

“You would have me give the wealth of my line to him?”

“Or see the city burn? Yes, Caliph, I would. He will not leave. He has the scent of blood in his nostrils and the people are afraid. There are rumors everywhere that the Arabs are already dealing with him, telling him about the secret ways into the city.”

“There
are
no secret ways,” al-Mustasim snapped. His voice was high and sounded petulant, even to his own ears. “I would know if there were.”

“Nonetheless, it is what they discuss in the markets. They expect Mongol warriors to come creeping into Baghdad every night we delay. This man wants only gold, they say. Why does the caliph not give the wealth of the world to him, that we may live?”

“I am waiting, Ahriman. Have I no allies? No friends? Where are they now?”

The vizier shook his head. “They remember Genghis, Caliph. They will not come to save Baghdad.”

“I
cannot
surrender. I am the light of Islam! The libraries alone … My life is not worth a single text. The Mongols will destroy them all if they set foot in my city.”

He felt anger grow at the frown on Ahriman’s face and stepped further away from the qamara so that the children would not hear their discussion. It was infuriating. Ahriman was meant to support his caliph, to plan and defeat his enemies. Yet the vizier could suggest nothing but throwing gold at the wolves.

Ahriman watched his master in frustration. They had known each other for a long time and he understood the man’s fears. They were justified, but it was not a choice between survival and destruction. It was a choice between surrendering and keeping some dignity, or risking the wrath of the most destructive race Ahriman had ever known. There were too many examples in their history to ignore.

“The shah of Khwarezm resisted them to the end,” Ahriman said softly. “He was a man among men, a warrior. Where is he now? His cities are black stones, his people are broken: slaves or the dead. You told me always to speak the truth to you. Will you hear it now when I tell you to open the gates and save as many as you can? Each day we make him wait in the heat, his anger grows.”

“Someone will come to relieve the city. We will show them then,” al-Mustasim said plaintively. He did not even believe it himself and Ahriman merely snorted in derision.

Al-Mustasim rose from his couch and walked to the window. He could smell the scented soaps in the market, blocks by the thousand made in workshops in the western quarter. It was a city of towers, of science and wonders, and yet it was threatened by lengths of sharp iron and black powder, by men who would not even understand the things they saw as they smashed them apart. Beyond the walls, he could see the Mongol armies, shifting like black insects. Al-Mustasim could barely speak for grief and tears filled his eyes. He thought of the children, so blissfully unaware of the threat all around them. Despair pressed him down.

“I will wait another month. If no one comes to aid my home, I will go out to my enemies.” His throat was thick, choking him as he spoke. “I will go out to them and negotiate our surrender.”

HULEGU WATCHED THE GATES CREAK OPEN, PUSHED BY TEAMS
of men under the lash. He was sweating already, aware of the sun on his skin even as it grew in intensity. Naturally dark, he had never known sunburn before the endless weeks of siege around Baghdad. Now the first kiss of warmth each day felt like a branding iron held to his flesh. His own sweat stung him, dribbling over his eyebrows and lashes to irritate his eyes and make him blink. He had done his best to keep the tumans fit and alert, but the sheer boredom of a siege was like one of the rashes that spread slowly across the flesh of otherwise healthy men. He scratched his groin at the thought, feeling the cysts there. It was dangerous to allow his shaman to cut them, as infection often followed, but in the privacy of his own ger, Hulegu squeezed the worst of them each night, reducing the hard lumps each time until pain made him stop. The oily white substance remained on his fingers. He could smell its pungency even as he stood there and waited for the caliph.

At least it would soon be over. There had been two attempts to escape his grip around the city, both of them along the river. The first had been in small boats constructed inside the iron river gates. They had been destroyed with naphtha oil, the helpless men in them drenched as clay jugs were thrown from the banks, then set alight
with flaming arrows. Hulegu did not know who had died that day. There had been no way to identify the bodies afterward, even if he had been interested.

The second attempt had been more subtle, just six men with their bodies blackened in soot and oil. They had reached the pontoons his men had built across the Tigris, anchored to heavy trunks jammed into the soft riverbed. The sharp eyes of one of his scouts had seen them sliding through the water and his warriors had unlimbered their bows, taking care with each shot as they laughed and called targets to each other. It may have been the last blow to the caliph’s hopes; Hulegu did not know. He had received word that al-Mustasim would meet him outside the city the following day.

Hulegu frowned as he watched a long retinue stride out of the city. He had demanded surrender once again, but the caliph had not even answered, preferring to wait for the meeting between them. Hulegu counted as the small column lengthened. Two hundred, three, perhaps four. At last it came to an end and the gates closed behind them, leaving the caliph’s soldiers to march their master into Hulegu’s presence.

Hulegu had not been idle the night before. He had no awning large enough to hold the caliph’s retinue, but he had cleared a spot on the stony ground and covered it in thick carpets taken from towns along their route. The edges of the spot were lined with plump cushions and Hulegu had added rough wooden benches, almost like one of the Christian churches he had seen in Russia. There was no altar, only a simple table and two chairs for the leaders to sit. Hulegu’s generals would stand, ready to draw their swords at the first sign of treachery.

Hulegu knew the caliph’s men would have reported his arrangements, viewed from the city walls. The small column made their way to it unerringly, giving Hulegu the chance to smile at the perfect steps of the marching men. He had not limited the numbers of soldiers the caliph could bring. Ten tumans surrounded the city and he made sure the caliph’s route was lined with his own horsemen, heavily armed and scowling. The message would be clear enough.

The man himself was carried in a chariot drawn by two large geldings.
Hulegu blinked when he saw the size of the caliph who ruled the city and called himself the light of Islam. No warrior, then, not that one. The hands that held the leading edge of his chariot were swollen and the eyes that searched for Hulegu were almost hidden in bloated flesh. Hulegu said nothing as the caliph was helped down by his servants. General Kitbuqa was there at hand to guide him to his place, while Hulegu thought through what he wanted from the meeting. He chewed the inside of his cheek as the caliph’s men took their seats. The whole thing was a farce, a mask to allow the man some shred of dignity when he deserved none. Even so, Hulegu had not refused the offer, or even quibbled over details. The important thing was that the man would bargain. Only the caliph could do so and Hulegu wondered yet again what vast wealth lay within the city known as the navel of the world. He had heard stories of Baghdad for a thousand miles, tales of ancient jade armor and ivory spears, holy relics and statues of solid gold, taller than three men. He hungered to see such things. He had turned gold into bars and rough coins, but he yearned to find pieces that would impress his brothers, both Mongke and Kublai. He was even tempted to keep the libraries, so that Kublai would know he had them. A man could never have enough wealth, but he could at least have more than his brothers.

As the caliph lowered his bulk to his chair, Hulegu clenched and unclenched his hands, grasping unconsciously at what was owed to him. He took his seat and stared coldly into the watery eyes of al-Mustasim. Hulegu could feel the sun stinging the back of his neck and considered calling for an awning until he saw the full glare was in the caliph’s face. Despite his Persian blood, the fat man was not comfortable in the heat. Hulegu nodded to him.

“What do you intend to offer me, Caliph, for your city and your life?” he said.

KUBLAI RODE EAST THROUGH THICK FOREST THAT SEEMED
endless. He knew he did not have to fear an attack. His scouts were out in all directions for thirty miles, yet the trees were thick and made an unnatural darkness that had his horse rearing at shadows. He had
been told of a natural clearing ahead, but the sun was setting and he could not yet see the vast boulder or the lake his scouts had described.

General Bayar rode just ahead, a master horseman who made light work of the thick foliage. Kublai lacked the man’s easy touch, but he stayed in sight, his personal guards all around him. At least the forest was empty. He and his men had found one abandoned village deep in thick cover and miles from the nearest road. Whoever had made the wretched houses had vanished long ago.

The ground had been rising gently for half a day and Kublai reached a high ridge as the sun touched the horizon, looking down into a steep valley with a perfect black bowl of water at its foot. His horse whickered gratefully at the sight, as scratched and thirsty as its rider. Kublai let Bayar lead the way, happy to follow the path he chose. Together they guided the horses down the slope, seeing lamps ahead like a host of fireflies.

Bayar did not look as weary as Kublai felt. He was not much younger, though the man was still fitter than Kublai’s life among books in Karakorum had made him. No matter how he worked his body, it never seemed to have the easy endurance of warriors and senior men. Half his tumans had gone before him and many would already be asleep in the close confines of gers, or sleeping out under the stars if there was no place to set up.