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Three other jaguns had taken part in the ambush. Jochi saw the officers ride out of the trees where they had lain in wait all night. After years with Tsubodai, he knew each man like a brother, as Genghis had once told him to do. Mekhali and Altan were solid men, loyal but unimaginative. Jochi nodded to them both as they trotted their ponies to the field of the dead. The last of them, Qara, was a short, sinewy warrior with a face scarred from an old wound. Though he was faultlessly formal, Jochi sensed a dislike he could not understand. Perhaps the glowering man resented him for his father. Jochi had met many suspicious of his rise in the ranks. Tsubodai was not subtle in the way he included Jochi in every plan and stratagem, just as Genghis had once done with the young boy from the Uriankhai who had become his general. Tsubodai looked to the future while men like Qara imagined they saw only a spoiled young prince, promoted beyond his skill.
As Qara rode up and grunted at the sight of the dead knights, Jochi realised he was no longer the man’s superior. He had accepted the silver with a battle looming and still felt the honour of being trusted with a hundred lives. Yet it meant that, for a time at least, Qara no longer had to watch himself around the khan’s son. One glance told Jochi the wiry little warrior had already thought it through.
‘Why are we waiting here?’ Qara said suddenly. ‘Tsubodai will be attacking as we smell the grass and stand idle.’
Jochi resented the words, but he spoke lightly, as if Qara had merely greeted him. If the man had been a true leader, he would already have begun the ride back to Tsubodai. In a flash of insight, Jochi understood that Qara still looked to him for orders, despite his drop in rank. Glancing at Mekhali and Altan, he found they too were watching. Perhaps it was just their habit, but he felt an idea begin to form and knew he would not waste the moment.
‘Do you see their armour, Qara?’ he said. ‘The first piece hangs from the helmet, covering their faces except for the eyes. The second cloth of iron rings reaches right to their knees.’
‘It did not stop our shafts,’ Qara replied with a shrug. ‘When they are unhorsed, they move so slowly it is easy to bring them down. We do not need such poor protection, I think.’
Jochi grinned up at the man, enjoying the confusion it brought.
‘We do need it, Qara.’
High in the hills above the valley, Tsubodai waited on foot, his pony snuffling among dead pine needles. Almost five thousand men rested around him, waiting for his decision. He waited on the scouts he had sent out. Two hundred had ridden in all directions, their reports allowing the general to form a picture of the area for many miles around.
He knew Jochi’s ambush had been a success almost before it was over. One thousand fewer of the enemy left only ten, but it was still too many. The column of knights moved slowly through the river valley, waiting for the attack group to return victorious. They had not brought bowmen into the wilderness, a mistake that would cost them dearly. Yet they were large men and so strong that Tsubodai could not risk a simple frontal assault. He had seen knights stuck with arrows who had still fought through to kill two or even three of his. They were warriors of great courage, but he thought it would not be enough. Brave men come forward when they are attacked and Tsubodai planned accordingly. Any army could be routed in the right conditions, he was certain of it. Not his own, of course, but that of any enemy.
Two of the scouts galloped in to mark the latest position of the Russian force. Tsubodai made them dismount and draw on the ground with sticks so he could be sure there was no misunderstanding.
‘How many scouts do they have out?’ he asked.
The warrior drawing with a stick replied without hesitation.
‘Ten in the rear, general, on a wide sweep. Twenty to the front and flanks.’
Tsubodai nodded. He knew enough to move at last.
‘They must be killed, especially the ones behind the knights’ column. Take them when the sun is highest and do not let even one escape. I will attack as soon as you signal by flag that the scouts are down. Repeat your orders.’
The warrior spoke quickly, word-perfect as he had been trained to be. Tsubodai allowed no confusion in the field. For all the use of flags to communicate over vast distances, he was still forced to rely on dawn, noon and sunset as the only markers for time. He looked up through the trees at the thought, seeing that the sun was not far off midday. It would not be long and he felt the familiar flutter in his stomach that came before a battle. He had told Jochi it was to train him and that was true, but not the whole truth. Tsubodai had held back that the knights travelled with portable forges in their baggage train. Blacksmiths were more valuable than any other artisan they could capture and Tsubodai had been intrigued by reports of iron carts belching smoke as they rolled.
Tsubodai smiled to himself, enjoying the rising excitement. Like Genghis, he could find no love for the sacking of towns and cities. It was something that had to be done, of course, as a man would pour boiling water on a nest of ants. It was the battles Tsubodai wanted, each one proving or increasing his mastery. He had found no greater joy than out-thinking his enemies, confounding and destroying them. He had heard of the strange quest the knights were on, to a land so distant that no one knew its name. It did not matter. Genghis would not allow armed men to ride his lands — and all lands were his.
Tsubodai scuffed the drawings in the dirt with the toe of his boot. He turned to the second scout who waited patiently, in awe of the general.
‘Ride to Jochi and find what has delayed him,’ Tsubodai ordered. ‘He will sit at my right hand for this attack.’
‘Your will, lord,’ the scout said, bowing before he scrambled to his horse and went careering through the trees at breakneck speed. Tsubodai squinted through the branches at the sun. He would move very soon.
In the thump and thunder of ten thousand horses, Anatoly Majaev glanced over his shoulder at the ridge little Ilya had disappeared behind. Where had his brother gone? He still thought of him as little Ilya, despite the fact that his brother outweighed him in both muscle and faith. Anatoly shook his head wearily. He had promised their mother he would look after him. Ilya would catch up, he was certain. He had not dared halt the column now the Mongols had shown they were in the area. Anatoly had sent scouts all around, but they too seemed to have vanished. He looked behind again, straining his eyes for the banners of a thousand men.
Ahead, the valley narrowed in a pass through hills that could have been part of the Garden of Eden. The slopes were green with grass so thick a man could not hack through the roots in half a day. Anatoly loved this land, but his eyes were always on the horizon, and one day he would see Jerusalem. He muttered a prayer to the Virgin under his breath and at that moment the pass darkened and he saw the Mongol army riding out against him.
The scouts were dead then, as he had feared. Anatoly cursed and could not help but look back for Ilya once more.
Shouts came from behind and Anatoly turned completely in the saddle, swearing at the sight of another dark mass of riders coming up fast. How had they gone around him without being spotted? It defied belief to have the enemy move like ghosts through the hills.
He knew his men could scatter the Mongols in a charge. Already, they had unhooked their shields and raised them, looking to him for orders. As the eldest son of a baron, Anatoly was the most senior officer. Indeed, it had been his family who had financed the entire trip, using some of their vast fortune to earn the goodwill of the monasteries that had become so powerful in Russia.
Anatoly knew he could not charge with the entire baggage train and rear ranks exposed. Nothing unnerved fighting men more than being struck from before and behind at the same time. He began to shout an order for three of his officers to take their centuries and wheel around to charge the rear. As he turned, a movement on the hills caught his eye and he grinned in relief. In the distance, a line of Russian heavy horse came back over the ridge, banners flying lightly in the breeze. Anatoly judged the distances and made his decision. He called a scout over to him.
‘Ride to my brother and tell him to hit the force at our rear. He must prevent them from joining the battle.’
The young man raced away, unencumbered by armour or weapons. Anatoly turned to the front, his confidence swelling. With the rear secured, he outnumbered those who were galloping towards him. His orders had taken only moments and he knew he could punch through the Mongols like an armoured fist.
Anatoly pointed his long spear over his horse’s ears.
‘Charge formation! For the white Christ, onward!’
Anatoly’s scout raced at full gallop across the dusty ground. Speed was everything with two armies converging on the column. He rode with his body pressed as low as he could go, the horse’s head lunging up and down by his own. He was young and excited and rode almost to Ilya Majaev’s men before pulling up in shock. Only four hundred had come back over the crest and they had been through hell. Brown slicks of blood showed on many men as they approached and there was something odd about the way they rode.
The scout suddenly understood and heaved at his reins in panic. He was too late. An arrow took him under a flailing arm and he tumbled over the horse’s ears, making the animal bolt.
Jochi and the other Mongols did not look at the prone figure as they galloped past. It had taken a long time to pull the chain mail off the dead, but the ruse was working. No force rode out to cut them off and, though the Russians didn’t know it, they were being attacked on three sides. As the slope lessened, Jochi dug in his heels and brought the heavy spear out of its leather socket. It was a cumbersome thing and he had to strain to hold it steady as he and his men thundered towards the Russian flank.
Anatoly was at full gallop, more than half a ton of flesh and iron focused on a spear point. He saw the front ranks shudder as the Mongol archers loosed their first shafts. The enemy were fast, but the column could not be held back or even turned at that speed. The noise of shield impacts and hooves was deafening, but he heard screams behind him and wrenched himself back to clarity. He was in command and, as his mind cleared, he shook his head in horror. He watched Ilya strike the main flank, cutting into the very men who had pledged themselves to the Majaev family on the pilgrimage.
As he gaped, Anatoly saw the men were smaller and wore bloody iron. Some had lost their helmets in the first clash to reveal yelling Mongol faces. He blanched then, knowing his brother was dead and the twin attack would crush the rear ranks. He could not turn and, though he bawled frantic orders, no one heard him.
Ahead, the Mongols let them come in, loosing shafts by the thousand into the Russian horsemen. The shields were battered and the column jerked like a wounded animal. Men fell by the hundred. It was as if a scythe had been drawn across the face of the column, cutting through living men.
Behind, the Mongols rolled up the baggage train, killing anyone on the carts who raised a weapon. Anatoly strained to think, to make out details, but he was in among the enemy. His spear ripped along a horse’s neck, opening a great gash that spattered him in warm blood. A sword flashed and Anatoly took the blow on his helmet, almost losing consciousness. Something hit him in the chest and suddenly he could not breathe, even to call for help. He strained for just a cupful of air, just a sip, but it did not come and he collapsed, hitting the ground hard enough to numb his final agony.
At the fires that evening, Tsubodai rode through the camp of his ten thousand. The dead knights had been stripped of anything valuable and the general had pleased the men by refusing his personal tithe. For those who received no pay for their battles, the collection of bloodstained lockets, rings and gems was something to covet in the new society Genghis was creating. A man could become wealthy in the army of the tribes, though they thought always in terms of the horses they could buy with their riches. The knights’ forges were of more interest to Tsubodai, as were the spoked cartwheels themselves, ringed in iron and easier to repair than the solid discs the Mongols used. Tsubodai had already instructed the captured armourers to demonstrate the skill to his carpenters.
Jochi was examining the forehoof of his favourite pony when Tsubodai trotted up to him. Before the younger man could bow, Tsubodai inclined his head, giving him honour. The jagun Jochi had commanded stood with pride.
Tsubodai lifted his hand to show Jochi the gold paitze he had taken from him before noon.
‘You had me wondering how Russians could come back from the dead,’ Tsubodai said. ‘It was a bold stroke. Take this back, Jochi. You are worth more than silver.’
He tossed the gold plaque through the air and Jochi caught it, struggling to keep his composure. Only the praise of Genghis himself would have meant more at that moment.
‘We will ride home tomorrow,’ Tsubodai said, as much for the men as Jochi. ‘Be ready at dawn.’
CHAPTER TWO
Chagatai felt an itch in his left armpit, where sweat dribbled under his best armour. Though he was the second son of the khan, he sensed it would not be right to give the spot a good scratch while he waited for the king of Koryo.
He risked a quick glance at the man who had brought him to the distant, walled city of Songdo. The hall of kings was stifling in the midday heat, but Jelme showed no discomfort in his lacquered armour. Like the courtiers and the royal guards, the Mongol general could have been carved out of wood.
Chagatai could hear water running in the far distance, the gentle sound somehow magnified in the oppressive heat and silence. The itch became maddening and he struggled to think of something else. As his gaze rested on a high ceiling of white plaster and ancient pine beams, he reminded himself that he had no reason to feel intimidated. For all their dignity, the Wang dynasty had not been able to crush the Khara-Kitai when those people came into their land from Chin territory and built fortresses. If Jelme had not volunteered his army to burn them out, the Koryon king would still be a near prisoner in his own palace. At fifteen years old, Chagatai felt a vague smugness at the thought. He had all the pride and arrogance of a young warrior, yet in this case he knew it was justified. Jelme and his warriors had come into the east to see what armies might stand against them and view the ocean for the first time. They had found enemies in the Khara-Kitai and driven them out of Koryo like whipped dogs. Chagatai knew it was only just that the king pay a tribute, whether he had asked for help or not.
Sweating in the heavy air, Chagatai tortured himself with memory of the breeze off the sea in the south. The cool wind had been the only good thing about that blue vastness, in his opinion. Jelme had been fascinated by the Koryon ships, but the thought of wanting to travel on water baffled Chagatai. If it could not be ridden, he had no use for it. Even the memory of the royal barge swaying at anchor made his stomach clench.
A bell sounded out in the courtyard, the tone echoing through gardens where bees buzzed in hives around acacia blossoms. Chagatai pictured the Buddhist monks heaving on the log that struck the great bell and he straightened, once more aware of how he stood. The king would be on his way and his torment would come to an end. He could stand an itch a little longer: just the thought of relief made it seem bearable.
The bell boomed again and servants slid back screens, opening the hall to the scent of pines from the surrounding hills. Despite himself, Chagatai let out a sigh as the intense heat began to lessen. The crowd moved subtly as they strained to see the king and Chagatai used the distraction to dig two fingers into his armpit and scratch vigorously. He sensed Jelme’s gaze flicker to him and resumed his impassive expression as the king of the Koryo people entered at last.
None of them were tall, Chagatai thought, as he saw the diminutive monarch waft through a carved doorway. He supposed the man’s name was Wang, after his family, but who knew or cared how these wiry little people named each other? Chagatai looked instead at a pair of serving girls in the king’s retinue. With their delicate golden skin, they were far more interesting than the man they served. The young warrior stared as the women fussed around their master, arranging his robes as he seated himself.
The king did not seem aware of the watching Mongols as he waited for his attendants to finish. His eyes were almost the same dark yellow as Genghis’, though they lacked his father’s ability to inspire terror. Compared with the khan, the Koryon king was just a lamb.
The servants finished their tasks at last and the king’s gaze finally focused on the arban of ten warriors Jelme had brought. Chagatai wondered how the man could bear such thick cloth on a summer’s day.
When the king spoke, Chagatai could not understand a word. Like Jelme, he had to wait for the translation into the Chin language he had struggled to master. Even then, he could hardly catch the meaning and listened in growing frustration. He disliked foreign languages. Once a man knew the word for a horse, why use another? Obviously Chagatai understood that men from far lands might not know the right way of speaking, but he felt they owed it to themselves to learn and not continue their gibberish, as if all tongues were of equal value.
‘You have kept your promises,’ the translator said solemnly, interrupting Chagatai’s thoughts. ‘The Khara-Kitai fortresses have burned for many days and that foul people have gone from the high and beautiful land.’
Silence fell again and Chagatai shifted uncomfortably. The court of the Koryo seemed to delight in slowness. He recalled his experience of the drink they called ‘nok cha’. Jelme had frowned at the way Chagatai emptied his cup in a gulp and held it out for another. Apparently, the pale green liquid was too valuable to be drunk like water. As if one warrior should care how another ate or drank! Chagatai ate when he was hungry and often forgot to attend the elaborate meals of the court. He could not understand Jelme’s interest in pointless rituals, but he had not spoken his thoughts aloud. When he ruled the Mongol nation, he would not allow pretension, he vowed to himself. Food was not something to linger over, or prepare in a thousand flavours. It was no wonder that the Koryon people had come so close to being conquered. They would be required to speak one language and eat perhaps no more than two or three different dishes, prepared quickly and without fuss. It would leave more time for training with weapons and exercise to make the body strong.
Chagatai’s wandering thoughts stilled as Jelme spoke at last, apparently having weighed every word.
‘It is fortunate that the Khara-Kitai chose to attack my scouts. Our needs met in their destruction. I speak now for the great khan, whose warriors have saved your country from a terrible enemy. Where is the tribute promised by your ministers?’
As the translation droned, the king stiffened slightly in his seat. Chagatai wondered if the fool took some insult from the words. Perhaps he had forgotten the army camped outside the city. At a single command from Jelme, they would burn the polished beams around the king’s head. It was still a mystery to Chagatai why they had not. Surely Genghis had sent them out to hone their skills? Chagatai appreciated distantly that there was an art in negotiating that he had yet to learn. Jelme had tried to explain the need to deal with foreign powers, but Chagatai could not see it. A man was either an enemy or a friend. If he was an enemy, everything he owned could be taken. Chagatai smiled as he completed the thought. A khan needed no friends, only servants.
Once more, he daydreamed about ruling his people. The tribes would never accept his brother, Jochi, if he was even the khan’s son at all. Chagatai had done his part in spreading the rumour that Jochi was the result of a rape, many years before. Genghis had allowed the whispers to grow deep roots by his distant manner towards the boy. Chagatai smiled to himself at the memories, allowing his hand to drift to the hilt of his sword. His father had given it to him rather than Jochi, a blade that had seen the birth of a nation. In his most private heart, Chagatai knew he would never take an oath to Jochi.
One of the king’s ministers leaned close to the throne to exchange whispered words. It went on long enough for the ranks of courtiers to wilt visibly in their robes and jewels, but at last the minister retreated. Once more the king spoke, his words translated smoothly.
‘Honoured allies may accept gifts in token of a new friendship, as has been discussed,’ the king said. ‘One hundred thousand sheets of oiled paper have been prepared for you, the labour of many moons.’ The assembled crowd of Koryon nobles murmured at the words, though Chagatai could not imagine why paper would be seen as valuable. ‘Ten thousand silk vests have been sewn and the same weight added in jade and silver. Two hundred thousand kwan of iron and the same in bronze have come from the mines and the guild of metalworkers. From my own stores, sixty tiger skins have been wrapped in silk and made ready to travel with you. Finally, eight hundred cartloads of oak and beech are the gift of the Wang dynasty, in thanks for the victory you have brought to the Koryon people. Go now in peace and honour and count us always as allies.’
Jelme nodded stiffly as the translator finished.
‘I accept your tribute, majesty.’
A slight flush had appeared on his neck. Chagatai wondered if the general would ignore the king’s attempt to save face. Tribute was given to conquerors and Jelme stood in silence for a long time as he considered the king’s words. When he spoke again, his voice was firm.
‘I ask only that six hundred young men between the ages of twelve and sixteen be added to it. I will train them in the skills of my people and they will know many battles and great honour.’
Chagatai struggled not to show his approval. Let them choke on that, with their talk of gifts and honoured allies. Jelme’s demand had revealed the true balance of power in the room and the courtiers were visibly distressed. The silence stretched in the hall and Chagatai watched with interest as the king’s minister bowed close once more. He saw the king’s knuckles whiten as his grip on the armrest tightened. Chagatai was tired of their posturing. Even the smooth-limbed women at the king’s feet had lost their allure. He wanted to get out into the cool air and perhaps bathe in the river before the sun lost its heat.
Yet Jelme did not move a muscle and his glare seemed to make the men around the king nervous. Their darting glances were wasted on the silent warriors as they stood and waited for a certain outcome. The city of Songdo had fewer than sixty thousand inhabitants and an army of no more than three thousand. The king could assume whatever airs he wanted, but Chagatai knew the truth of the situation. When the answer came at last, it was no surprise.
‘We are honoured that you would accept so many young men into your service, general,’ the king said.
His expression was sour, but Jelme responded to the interpreter, mouthing further expressions of goodwill that Chagatai drowned out. His father had called Jelme home after three years of scouting the east. It would be good to see the mountains again and Chagatai could barely restrain his impatience at the thought. Jelme seemed to think this paper would be important, though Chagatai doubted Genghis would value it. In that, at least, his father was predictable. It was a good thing Jelme had demanded silk and hard woods as well. Those things were worth having.
Without an obvious signal, the bell sounded again in the courtyard outside, ending the audience. Chagatai watched the servant girls as they readied their master to stand and fell in behind him. He sighed as the room relaxed subtly around him, taking pleasure in scratching his armpit once more. Home. Jochi would be coming back as well, with Tsubodai. Chagatai wondered how his brother would have changed in three years. At seventeen, he would be fully grown and no doubt Tsubodai had trained him well. Chagatai cracked his neck with his hands, relishing the challenges to come.
In the southern half of Chin lands, warriors of the third army of Genghis were drinking themselves senseless. At their backs, the citizens of Kaifeng waited behind high walls and gates, already despairing. Some of the Chin had accompanied the emperor himself as he had come south from Yenking three years before. They had seen the smoke in the northern sky as that city burned. For a time, they thought the Mongols had passed them by, but then the army of Khasar came after them, drawing lines of destruction across the ground like a hot iron across flesh.
The streets of Kaifeng had become lawless even in the heart of the city. Those who had armed guards could climb to the walls and look down on the besieging army. What they saw brought no comfort or hope. To the Chin, even the casual nature of Khasar’s siege was an insult.
On this day, the great khan’s brother was amusing himself with a wrestling competition amongst his men. Khasar’s host of gers lacked a clear pattern and his vast herds of animals wandered aimlessly over the land, only rarely disturbed by the long whips of herdsmen. The Mongols had not so much surrounded Kaifeng as made camp there. To the Chin who hated and feared them, it was galling to see the enemy enjoying games and sports while Kaifeng began to go hungry. Though the Chin were no strangers to cruelty, the Mongols were more callous than they could comprehend. Khasar’s army cared nothing at all for the suffering inhabitants of Kaifeng and only resented them for delaying the fall of the city. They had been there for three months and they showed a terrible, limitless patience.
The emperor’s city of Yenking had fallen to these primitive horsemen. Its great armies had not held them. With that example, no one in Kaifeng had real hope. The streets were ruled by ruthless gangs and only the strong dared go out at all. Food was distributed from a central store, but some days they had nothing. No one could know if the food was running out, or if it had been stolen on the way.
In the camp, Khasar rose to his feet, roaring in excitement with Ho Sa as the wrestler known as Baabgai, the Bear, heaved his opponent up over his head. The vanquished man struggled at first, but Baabgai stood unmoving, beaming like a stupid child at his general. The bets dwindled to a trickle and then nothing. The man he held was so battered and exhausted that he only tugged feebly at Baabgai’s square fingertips.
Khasar had found the wrestler among his Chin recruits, marking him apart immediately for his size and strength. He looked forward to having the massive idiot challenge one of the champions at home. If he judged the wagers well, he could beggar a few men in one match, his brother Temuge among them.
Baabgai waited impassively for Khasar’s order. Few others could have supported a grown warrior for so long and Baabgai’s face was pink and shiny with sweat.
Khasar stared through the big wrestler, his thoughts returning to the message from Genghis. The scout his brother had sent still stood where Khasar had placed him hours before. Flies were sucking at the salt on the scout’s skin, but the young man dared not move.
Khasar’s good mood vanished and he gestured irritably to his wrestling champion.
‘Break him,’ he snapped.
The crowd took a sharp breath as Baabgai dropped suddenly to one knee, bringing his opponent down on the outstretched thigh. The crack of a broken spine sounded across the clearing and all the men roared and exchanged betting tokens. Baabgai beamed toothlessly at them. Khasar looked away as the crippled man’s throat was cut. It was a kindness not to leave him alive for dogs and rats.
Sensing his thoughts turning darker, Khasar signalled for the next bout and a skin of black airag: anything to distract him from his gloom. If he’d known Genghis would be recalling the armies, he’d have made better time heading into Chin lands. With Ho Sa and Genghis’ son Ogedai, he’d spent leisurely years burning cities and executing their populations, all the time moving closer to where the boy emperor had taken refuge. It had been a very happy time for him.
He was not a man given to thinking too hard about himself, but Khasar had come to enjoy being in command. For men like Genghis, it came naturally. Khasar could not imagine Genghis allowing anyone to lead him to a toilet pit, never mind a battle. For Khasar, it had come slowly, the need growing like moss. For three years, he had not spoken to any of his brothers, Genghis, Kachiun or Temuge. His warriors had expected him to know where to ride and what to do once they arrived. Khasar had found it exhausting at first, just as a lead dog will last only so long at the head of a pack. He knew that well, but he discovered another truth, that leading was as exciting as it was exhausting. His mistakes were his own, but his triumphs were also his own. As the seasons passed, Khasar had changed subtly and he did not want to go home. Waiting for Kaifeng to fall, he was father to ten thousand sons.
He looked around at the men he had brought so far from home. His second in command, Samuka, was sober as always, watching the wrestling with detached amusement. Ogedai was yelling and sweating with drink, looking small at the shoulder of warriors. Khasar let his gaze drift over the boy, wondering how he would take the news of their return. At Ogedai’s age, everything was new and exciting and Khasar thought he would be pleased. His mood soured further as he studied his men. Every one of them had proved his worth. They had taken women by the thousand, horses, coins and weapons, too much to spend a lifetime cataloguing. Khasar let out a long sigh. Yet Genghis was the great khan and Khasar could no more imagine rebelling against his older brother than he could sprout wings and fly across the walls of Kaifeng.
Ho Sa seemed to sense the general’s mood and raised a skin of black airag to him, the noise of the wrestling bout swelling around them both. Khasar smiled tightly, without pleasure. With Samuka, Ho Sa had heard the scout’s message. The day had been ruined and both men knew it.
The Xi Xia officer would once have shuddered at the thought of drinking with lice-ridden tribesmen. Before the Mongols had come, Ho Sa had lived a life of simple austerity, proud of his place in his king’s army. He had woken each dawn for an hour of exercise before bathing, then begun the day with black tea and bread dipped in honey. Ho Sa’s life had been almost perfect and he sometimes longed for it, while dreading its dullness at the same time.
On very dark nights, when all the pretences of men are laid bare, Ho Sa knew he had found a place and a life he would never have enjoyed in the Xi Xia. He had risen to third in command of a Mongol army and men like Khasar trusted him with their lives. The bites of fleas and lice were a small price to pay in return. Following Khasar’s black gaze, Ho Sa too glowered drunkenly at Kaifeng. If all an emperor could do was cower behind high walls, he was no emperor as far as Ho Sa could see. He took another gulp of the clear airag and winced as it stung a cut on his gums.
Ho Sa did sometimes miss the peace and routines of his old life, but he knew they continued somewhere. That thought brought him comfort when he was tired or wounded. It also helped that he had a fortune in gold and silver. If he ever did return home, he would have wives, slaves and wealth.
The second match finished with a broken arm and both men bowed to Khasar before he gave them leave to have their wounds treated. The day’s events would cost him perhaps a dozen injured and a few killed, but it was worth it to inspire the others. They were not delicate young girls, after all.
Khasar glared at the scout. It had been Khasar himself who had taken the lonely forts the Mongols now used as way stations for their messengers. They stretched in an unbroken line all the way back to the charred remains of Yenking in the north. If Khasar had realised the new trade road would enable Genghis to send a recall order only eighteen days before, he might not have done it. Would his brother understand if he waited another year for the fortress city to fall? Khasar kicked at a stone, startling the scout as he stood there. He knew the answer. Genghis would expect him to drop everything and return, bringing the khan’s son, Ogedai, with him. It was galling and Khasar stared at Kaifeng as if he could bring the walls down with anger alone. He hardly saw the third bout of wrestling, though the hard-drinking crowd appreciated it.
‘Recite the orders again,’ Khasar said suddenly. Over the yelling warriors, he had to repeat himself twice to be heard.
The scout bowed his head, at a loss to understand the mood his message had created.
‘Come home and drink black airag with our people, my brother. In the spring, we will drink milk and blood.’
‘That is all?’ Khasar snapped. ‘Tell me how he looked when he sent you out.’
The scout shifted uncomfortably.
‘The Great Khan was discussing plans, lord, with his senior men. They had maps weighted with stones of lead, but I did not hear what they said before I was summoned.’
Ho Sa raised his head at that, his eyes glassy with drink.
‘Milk and blood will mean he plans a new war,’ he called.
