The Tiger Queens (52 page)

Her words caught me off guard, for Yesui was Checheyigen’s mother, and therefore, Oghul Ghaimish’s grandmother, although I doubted whether the two had ever met. Yesui must have sensed my thoughts, for she patted my arm. “A mother knows when she’s whelped a mean runt, and will often suffocate the little beast before he ruins the litter. My Checheyigen was a good girl, and Oghul Ghaimish might have been, too, had Ogodei and his ilk not ruined her. Toregene should have destroyed Güyük before he had a chance to suckle, but she didn’t, and thus my granddaughter has paid for it. By all reports her mind is broken, and she will destroy what remains of this empire if she remains upon the Horse Throne. You’ve raised your sons well; I only hope they can repair the damage.”

I laid my hand over hers, wondering if she’d be so composed if she knew what lay in store for her granddaughter. “I hope so, too, Yesui. I pray for it every day.”

More members of the Borijin family—Chaghatai’s grown sons and even the sons of Ogodei’s lesser wives—came to pledge their support for Möngke, pitching their tents until the steppes were dotted with a sea of white like cotton flowers in spring. The numbers gathered at our camp were overwhelming, a huge show of support lacking only Oghul Ghaimish.

And so, on the first day of high summer, dressed in a flowing robe of leopard skins lined with sable and wearing a towering headdress as befit the mother of the Great Khan, I felt a surge of triumph as the Gur-Khan’s
helm was placed on Möngke’s head. Christian and Saracen prayers choked the air of the Great White Tent—its felt panels sewn together by my own hands—and blue-robed shamans poured offerings of milk to the Earth Mother.

Möngke would be an able administrator and a steady presence to guide his brothers when I was no longer there to do so. Our family had spent decades waiting for this moment, but our work was not done.

“Send a message to Oghul Ghaimish,” I said to Shigi, “commanding her to step down. And a second letter authorizing Batu to arrest her when she refuses.”

Shigi stared at me for a moment, understanding dawning in his weary eyes as he set up his paper and ink. “You’ve been using her as a pawn all along, haven’t you?”

“I’ll beat her at her own game, if that’s what you mean.” I opened his inkpot, blue glass from Cathay blown into the shape of a tortoise. I recognized it as a gift from Toregene. “It’s what she deserves.”

“This shall be my last official act as scribe and judge to this empire,” Shigi said, his voice resigned. “Then I would like permission to leave Karakorum.”

“And do what?” I could scarcely fathom leaving the capital now that the transfer of power was almost secure, akin to leaving the battlefield in the middle of a fight. But Shigi had served the Golden Family well, acting as its judge in the early days of Genghis’ ascension and then recording the family history until Fatima took over the role of scribe.

“I would live a simple life for my remaining days,” Shigi answered. “Away from the intrigues of the court that has stolen so much from me.”

So he would spend his last few years grieving for Toregene. I might not have experienced such a love, but if anyone deserved to spend his final years in peace, it was Shigi.

“Justice will be done,” I said, clasping his hand. “I swear it, Shigi.”

He gave a tight nod and I watched as his elegant script filled the paper
with my demands, informing Oghul Ghaimish of our recent
khurlatai
and ordering the madwoman to leave the Golden Ordu. The ink seeped into the paper and the shiny black letters grew dull as Shigi blew on them. All that remained was to have Möngke sign the orders.

It was only a matter of time before Oghul Ghaimish was arrested. Then I’d see her pay for what she’d done to Fatima, and to Toregene.

*   *   *

It took almost two months, but Batu brought Oghul Ghaimish to me, just as I’d known he would. As the leaves dropped from the trees, the mad Khatun was dragged before us, shrieking like a magpie and covered in stinking layers of her own filth. Her bloodied scalp showed through patches of matted hair and the skin at her neck was raw and more bloody than ever.

Möngke looked out at the sea of his people assembled in the center of his Great Tent. “People of the Thirteen Tribes,” he said, his strong voice calming the flutters of conversation like the shade of a hawk over the chatter of squirrels. “Oghul Ghaimish, wife of Güyük, no longer reigns as Great Khatun over the steppes. She has committed many evils against our people, and for that she must be punished. My mother, Sorkhokhtani, shall preside over her judgment.” He gave a curt nod in my direction, then took a seat upon his throne to watch the proceedings.

Oghul Ghaimish cowered on the ground before me with her hands and feet bound, and so close I could smell the piss that stained her felts. She mumbled something incoherent and I wondered if her reason had finally fled completely. I didn’t relish what I was about to do, but it was necessary, the final step to securing my family’s safety.

“Oghul Ghaimish,” I said, letting the breeze catch my voice, “you have been charged with conspiring against the Great Khan—”

I didn’t get to finish before her piercing cry cut the air, like the scream of a panther about to kill and just as terrifying. I lurched back before steeling myself against the sound.

“You gave the poison to me,” she screamed. “You wanted Güyük to die! But it’s Möngke who should die, the imposter who sits now upon the Horse Throne!”

“Silence!” Möngke yelled.

“You’ll never be the Great Khan,” Oghul Ghaimish shrieked. “For I am Great Khatun.
I
wore the green headdress!
I
demanded the surrender of the king of France!”

“Restrain her,” I ordered, and two guards rushed to do my bidding, but she bit at them. Finally, two others held her down while the first stuffed a rag in her mouth and tied it with horse rope. She sputtered against the gag, the whites of her eyes ugly with blood and rolling in terror. My foot itched to kick her mouth, to watch her spit out her teeth, but instead I stared down upon her. “You have been charged with conspiring against Möngke, Great Khan of the Mongols, and also of using black magic to murder Güyük, son of Ogodei Khan and grandson of Genghis Khan,” I continued, although Güyük’s name left a sour taste in my mouth. “Do you admit your guilt and repent your sins?”

Oghul Ghaimish glared at me from her knees, her brown eyes flashing as if she were possessed by all the demons of hell.

I bent down so only she could hear me. “Do you repent your crimes against Fatima of Nishapur?”

She stared at me, then gave a defiant shake of her head. Beneath the gag, she smiled, thus sealing her fate.

I could still release her, but then Möngke would forever be looking over his shoulder for this mad bitch who had proclaimed herself leader over the Mongolian Empire, however briefly. I would make one last sacrifice for my sons and then leave them to their rule.

“Since you do not admit your sins,” I said to Oghul Ghaimish, “we shall see if you face your death as bravely as Fatima did. Evil shall be punished with evil.”

I nodded to the guards behind me as I took my seat. “Take her to the river,” I said. “She shall be drowned in a manner befitting the most vile of traitors.”

The acrid scent of fresh urine filled my nose and I recoiled from the foul yellow liquid streaming down Oghul Ghaimish’s legs to form puddles on the packed earth. It seemed Oghul Ghaimish would not greet her fate with defiance.

As they dragged her away, I felt the stain of her death settle into my soul, a heavy weight I would bear until the end of my days, and one that other women before me had borne. I felt Alaqai at my side, smelled her gentle scent of horses and hearth smoke, and smiled.

“We’re the last ones left,” she said. “My father, mother, and brothers, our husbands, Toregene, and Fatima . . . Only we remain.”

I felt the spirits of the dead settle around us, yet their presence was comforting, reassuring even, as if they approved of this new empire ruled by my sons. I glanced at Möngke sitting on the golden Horse Throne and Kublai standing triumphant behind him, and linked my arm through Alaqai’s.

“We, each in our own ways, safeguarded and nurtured this empire, you and your mother, Fatima and Toregene, and me.” I gestured to my sons. “And now we leave it in capable hands.”

She followed my gaze and rested her head on my shoulder. “That we do, Sorkhokhtani. And I have no doubt that in the coming days those capable hands are going to accomplish great things for my father’s empire.”

I smiled at that, hearing Genghis’ laugh in my mind and knowing that somehow, she was right.

A
man’s spirit is housed in the trembling pennant of his Spirit Banner after his soul flees his body, but a woman’s spirit is forever housed within her
ger
,
sheltered by the felt walls beaten by her own hands.

On the plain of Khodoe Aral, eight white
gers
stand proudly against the green of the grasses. The lesser three off to the side each belonged to one of Genghis Khan’s secondary wives: Yesui, Yesugen, and Gurbesu. Five more cluster together like hunchbacked old women, four faded and worn by the wind and rain of many years and the last as pristine as newly fallen snow with walls that still smell of freshly felted wool. If one listens closely enough, the whispers and laughter of the conversations once held inside can still be heard on the northern breeze.

These are no ordinary
ordus
,
but the Eight White
Gers
of Genghis Khan, the sacred tents belonging to the wives and daughters of his empire. Their felt doors flutter as spirits brush them aside to peer onto the steppe, as their mortal bodies once looked for husbands or sons returned victorious from battle, or courtiers come from foreign lands to witness the might of this new empire.

One solitary woman stands in the pale green grasses, her gray hair plaited in a long braid down her back and a bulky square package clasped to her withered chest. Slowly, she circles each tent, a prayer rumbling in her throat.
She pauses before each
ger
, reaching out a gnarled hand spotted like a rotting alder leaf so she might touch the lone emblems belonging to each tent.

The charcoal remains of a hearth fire.

A sword inlaid with tigers of jade and gold.

A second tiger’s snarling face, painted and carved into the door of a
ger
.

The delicate bloom of a poet narcissus.

In the center of the circle, the gray-haired woman places a package, untying the string that binds it and unfolding the stunning red silk wrapping.

It is a stack of manuscript pages, bound in blue leather and embossed with glittering gold. This is only one of several copies of the history of the Golden Family, but despite her sons’ protests, she insisted upon carrying it here.

After all, its pages contain our story.

Finally, the Princess of the Hearth pauses outside the fifth
ger
, nondescript with its plain white felts and cedar door. Her sons had begged her to remain with them during her final days—the Great Khan had even ordered her to stay within his camp—but she’d torn down the plain white
ger
with her own trembling hands until finally the entire family had helped disassemble the wool panels and wooden supports. They had carried them here, to this desolate, windswept plain, and reassembled the tent in silence. Now, at her request, they embrace one last time, draw their last breaths of one another’s spirits, and the sons mount their horses, the final words of parting lodging in their throats.

She watches them go and raises her hand in farewell when the broad-shouldered men all turn back for a final glance. She carried them in her womb, brought them squalling and slick with her own blood into this world, and as fierce as a tiger, spent every breath since then fighting for them. In one eloquent movement, the men bow to the stooped old woman standing on the horizon.

Then they turn and gallop away, leaving her alone on the steppe.

But she isn’t alone.

She glances at the
gers
surrounding her in a circle and settles down cross-legged on the threshold of her tent to play a familiar melody on the ivory flute she keeps forever with her. We have always been her family, and her spirit will join us for eternity.

She has come home.

*denotes a historical figure

Borijin Clan

*Temujin/Genghis Khan:
The Khan of Khans

*Borte:
Genghis’ wife, mother of his sons

*Jochi:
Borte’s firstborn son, likely son of Chilger the Athlete, claimed by Genghis

*Chaghatai:
Second son of Genghis and Borte

*Ogodei:
Third son of Genghis and Borte

*Alaqai:
Genghis and Borte’s daughter

*Tolui:
Genghis and Borte’s final son, Prince of the Hearth

*Hoelun:
Genghis’ mother

*Khasar:
Genghis’ younger brother

*Temulun:
Genghis’ younger sister

*Yesui and Yesugen:
Tatar sisters, secondary wives of Genghis

*Checheyigen:
Yesui’s daughter, mother of Oghul Ghaimish

Gurbesu:
Borte’s childhood friend, minor wife of Genghis

*Al-Altun:
Daughter of Genghis Khan

*Toregene:
Naiman noblewoman, Ogodei’s wife

*Güyük:
Ogodei and Toregene’s son

*Sorkhokhtani:
Kerait princess, Tolui’s wife, Princess of the Hearth

*Möngke:
Tolui and Sorkhokhtani’s eldest son

*Kublai:
Tolui and Sorkhokhtani’s younger son

The Onggud

*Ala-Qush:
Alaqai’s first husband

Orbei:
Ala-Qush’s first wife

*Jingue:
Ala-Qush’s eldest son

Enebish:
Ala-Qush’s daughter

*Boyahoe:
Ala-Qush’s younger son

Others

*Jamuka:
Genghis’ blood brother, leader of the Jadarin clan

*Teb Tengeri:
Shaman to Genghis Khan

*Mother Khogaghchin:
Elderly servant of Hoelun

*Chilger the Athlete:
member of the Merkid clan, Borte’s kidnapper

*Shigi:
Tatar captive, adopted younger brother of Genghis raised by Hoelun

*Fatima:
Persian captive from Nishapur

*Batu Khan:
Jochi’s eldest son, leader of the Golden Horde

*Korguz:
Uighur scribe to
Ogodei