Authors: Conn Iggulden
He saw scouts galloping ahead of him for days before he caught sight of the main Mongol army. It had spent the summer in an encampment equal to Karakorum as it had been before the khan’s city was built. It was a host of white gers, a peaceful scene of morning fires and vast herds of horses in the distance. Mongke shook his head in silent wonder as he trotted closer.
His banners had been recognized, of course, but still Tsubodai sent a minghaan out to meet him before the tuman was in striking distance of the main camp. Mongke accepted the silent scrutiny of the orlok’s men. He recognized their officer and saw the man nod to himself. Mongke knew then that Tsubodai had sent a man who could confirm his identity by sight. He watched with fascination as the officer gestured to a companion, who raised a long brass tube to
his lips. The note blared out and Mongke looked around in astonishment as it was answered to the left and right. Horses and men appeared less than a mile away on both sides. Tsubodai had sent out a flanking force to contain him, lying with their horses concealed in trees and behind a ridge of ground. It went some way to explain how the ice general had fought his way so far from home.
By the time they reached the main camp, a space had been cleared, a vast empty field with access to a small river. Mongke was nervous.
“Show them the cold face,” he said quietly to himself.
As his tuman fell into the routines of the camp and began to set up gers with quick efficiency, Mongke dismounted. His ten thousand and the horses they brought needed land the size of a large town just to rest. Tsubodai had prepared for their arrival.
He turned sharply at a cry of pleasure to see his uncle Kachiun walking over the torn grass. He looked much older than when Mongke had last seen him, and he limped heavily. Mongke watched him with a guarded expression, but gripped his hand when Kachiun held it out.
“I have been waiting for days to see you,” Kachiun said. “Tsubodai will want to hear news of home this evening. You are invited to his ger as a guest. You will have fresh information.” He smiled at the young man his nephew had become. “I understand your mother has sources our scouts can’t match.”
Mongke tried to hide his confusion. Karakorum was three thousand miles to the east. It had taken him four months of hard travel to reach the general. There had been times over the previous month when Tsubodai was moving so fast he thought he would never catch up with him. If the general had not stopped for a season to refresh his herds and men, Mongke would still have been traveling. Yet Kachiun spoke as if Karakorum were just over the next valley.
“You are well informed, Uncle,” Mongke said after a pause. “I do have a number of letters from home.”
“Anything for me?”
“Yes, Uncle. I have letters from two of your wives as well as the khan.”
“Excellent, I’ll take those now then.”
Kachiun rubbed his hands together in anticipation, and Mongke suppressed a smile as he realized it was the main reason for his uncle’s coming to greet him in such a way. Perhaps they were not too busy to want fresh news of home. He crossed to his pony as it munched on ice-rimed grass, and he opened the saddlebags, pulling out a sheaf of greasy yellow parchments.
Kachiun looked around him as Mongke sorted through them.
“You would not have brought your father’s tuman to protect letters, Mongke. You are staying then?”
Mongke thought of the efforts his mother had made to have Ogedai assign her oldest son to this army. She believed that the future of the nation lay in the battle honors he could win there, that whoever returned from the sweep west would have a hand on the reins of fate. He wondered if she was correct.
“With the permission of Orlok Tsubodai, yes,” he said, handing over the letters marked for his uncle.
Kachiun smiled as he took them and clapped his nephew on the shoulder. “You are dusty and tired, I see. Rest and eat while your gers are constructed. I will see you tonight.”
Both Mongke and Kachiun looked up as another rider came trotting across the camp toward them.
Men covered the entire valley floor, the camp and its smoky fires stretching away as far as Mongke could see. With the constant need for water, food, wood, and toilet pits, and the thousand details of simply living, it was a place of constant bustle and movement. Children ran around, yelling and pretending to be warriors. Women watched them indulgently while they worked at a thousand different tasks. Real warriors trained or just stood guard over the herds.
Through them all, Tsubodai rode with his eyes fixed on Mongke, his pace brisk. He wore a new set of scale armor, clean and well oiled, so that it moved easily with him. His horse was copper-brown, almost red in the sunlight. The orlok looked neither left nor right as he rode.
It was an effort for Mongke to hold his gaze. He saw Tsubodai frown slightly, and then the general dug in his heels and increased
his speed, bringing the pony up quickly so that it stood blowing and pawing the ground.
“You are welcome in my camp, General,” Tsubodai said, giving Mongke his official title with no hesitation.
Mongke bowed calmly. He was aware that he owned the rank solely because his mother seemed to have a hold on the khan. Yet his father’s sacrifice had raised the son, and that was only right. He had ridden in war against the Chin. He would do better with Tsubodai, he was certain.
As if in echo of his thoughts, Tsubodai looked over the tuman from Karakorum.
“I was sorry to hear of your father’s death,” Tsubodai said. “He was a fine man. We can certainly use you here.” The orlok was obviously pleased at the sight of so many additional warriors. It brought his tumans up to six, with almost as many again in his auxiliaries. Surely the sky father smiled on this campaign.
“You have a month or two yet before we move,” Tsubodai went on. “We must wait for the rivers to freeze solid. After that, we will ride against the city of Moscow.”
“In winter?” Mongke said, before he could stop himself. To his relief, Tsubodai only chuckled.
“Winter is
our
time. They shut up their cities for the cold months. They put their horses in stables and sit around great fires in enormous houses of stone. If you want a bearskin, do you attack in summer when it is strong and fast, or cut its throat as it sleeps? We can stand the cold, Mongke. I took Riazan and Kolomna in winter. Your men will join the patrols and training immediately. It will keep them busy.”
Tsubodai nodded to Kachiun, who bowed as the orlok clicked in his cheek and trotted the red horse away.
“He is … impressive,” Mongke said. “I am in the right place, I think.”
“Of course you are,” Kachiun said. “It is incredible, Mongke. Only your grandfather had his touch on campaign. There are times when I think he must be possessed of some warlike spirit. He
knows
what they will do. Last month he sent me to the middle of nowhere
to wait. I was there just two days when a force came galloping over the hill, three thousand armored knights riding to relieve Novgorod.” He smiled in memory. “Where else would you rather be? Safe at home? You were right to come out here. We have one chance to knock the world back on its heels, Mongke. If we can do it, there will be centuries of peace. If not, everything your grandfather built will be ashes in just a generation. Those are the stakes, Mongke. This time we will not stop until we reach the sea. I swear, if Tsubodai can find a way to put horses on ships, perhaps not even then!”
Chagatai rode along the cliffs of Bamiyan with his eldest son, Baidur. Northwest of Kabul, the red-brown crags ran outside the lands granted him by Ogedai, but then, his family had never truly recognized borders. He grinned at the thought, pleased to be riding in the fading heat, in the shadow of dark peaks. The town of Bamiyan was an ancient place, the houses built of the same dun stone that formed its backdrop. It had suffered conquerors and armies before, but Chagatai had no quarrel with the farmers there. He and his men patrolled areas outside the Amu Darya river, but there was no cause to leave the villages and towns as smoking ruins.
With the khan’s shadow stretching over them, they were actually thriving. Thousands of migrant families had come to live in the lands around his khanate, knowing that no one would dare move an army in reach of Samarkand or Kabul. Chagatai had made his authority clear in the first two years, as he took control of an area populated by wild bandits and aggressive local tribes. Most were slaughtered, the rest driven away like goats to take word to those who did not hear. The message had not been lost and many of the townspeople believed that Genghis himself had returned. Chagatai’s men had not bothered to correct the error.
Baidur was already tall, with the pale yellow eyes that marked the line from the great khan, ensuring instant obedience among those who had known Genghis. Chagatai watched him closely as he guided his mare across broken ground. It was a different world,
Chagatai thought, a little ruefully. At Baidur’s age, he had been locked in a struggle with his older brother, Jochi, neither willing to give up the prospect of being khan after their father. It was a bittersweet memory. Chagatai would never forget the day when their father had denied them both and made Ogedai his heir.
The air had been baked all day, but as the sun sank it grew cooler and Chagatai could relax and enjoy the sights and sounds around him. His khanate was a huge area, larger even than the homeland. It had been won by Genghis, but Chagatai would not scorn the gift of his brother. The cliffs were looming closer and he saw Baidur look back at him to see where he wanted to go.
“To the foot of the cliffs,” he said. “I want you to see a wonder.”
Baidur smiled and Chagatai felt a burst of affection and pride. Had his own father ever felt such an emotion? He did not know. For a moment, he almost wished Jochi alive so he could tell him how different things were, how his world had grown larger than the small inheritance they had fought over. The horizons were wide enough for them all, he realized now, but the wisdom of age is bitter when those you have failed have gone. He could not bring back the years of his youth and live them with greater understanding. How impatient he had been once, how foolish! He had vowed many times not to make the same mistakes with his own sons, but they too would have to find their path. He thought then of another son of his, killed in a raid by some ragged tribesmen. It had just been his bad luck that he had come across them as they camped. Chagatai had made them suffer for the death of that boy. His grief swelled and vanished just as quickly. There had always been death in his life. Yet somehow Chagatai survived where other, perhaps better, men had fallen. His was a lucky line.
At the base of the cliffs, Chagatai could see hundreds of dark spots. From his previous trips, he knew they were caves, some natural, but most hewn from the rock by those who preferred the cool refuges to a brick-built house on the plain. The brigand he sought that day had his base in those caves. Some of them went back into the earth for a great distance, but Chagatai did not think it would
be too hard a task. The tuman that rode at his back had brought firewood to bank at the entrance to every cave, smoking them out like wild bees from their nest.
In among the dark fingernail smudges of the cave mouths, two fingers of shadow rose above them, immense alcoves cut into the rock. Baidur’s sharp eyes picked them out from a mile away, and he pointed excitedly, looking to his father for an answer. Chagatai smiled at him in response and shrugged, though he knew very well what they were. It was one reason he had brought his son out on the raid. The dark shapes grew before them as they came closer, until Baidur reined in his mare at the foot of the largest of the pair. The young man was awestruck as his eyes made out the shape inside the cliff.
It was a huge statue, larger than any man-made thing Baidur had ever seen before. The drapes of robes could be seen cut into the brown stone. One hand was held up with an open palm, the other outstretched as if in offering. Its partner was only slightly smaller: two smiling figures looking out onto the fading sun.
“Who made them?” Baidur asked in wonder. He would have walked even closer, but Chagatai clicked his tongue to stop him. The cave dwellers were sharp-sighted and good with a bow. It would not do to tempt them with his son.
“They are statues of the Buddha, some deity of the Chin,” he said.
“Out here? The Chin are far away,” Baidur responded. His hands opened and closed as he stood there, obviously wanting to walk up and touch the enormous figures.
“The beliefs of men know no borders, my son,” Chagatai said. “There are Christians and Moslems in Karakorum, after all. The khan’s own chancellor is one of these Buddhists.”
“I cannot see how statues could be moved … no, they were cut here, the rock removed around them,” Baidur said.
Chagatai nodded, pleased at his son’s sharp wits. The statues had been chiseled out of the mountains themselves, revealed with painstaking labor.
“According to the local men, they have stood here as long as anyone
can remember. Perhaps even for thousands of years. There is another one in the hills, a huge figure of a man lying down.”
Chagatai felt an odd pride, as if he were somehow responsible for them himself. His son’s simple pleasure was a joy to him.
“Why did you want me to see them?” Baidur asked. “I am grateful—they are … astonishing—but why have you shown them to me?”
Chagatai stroked the soft muzzle of his mare, gathering his thoughts.
“Because my father did not believe in building a future,” he said. “He used to say there was no better way for a man to spend his life than in war with his enemies. The spoils and land and gold you have seen came almost by accident from those beliefs. He never sought them for themselves. Yet here is proof, Baidur. What we build can last and be remembered, perhaps for a thousand generations to come.”
“I understand,” Baidur said softly.
Chagatai nodded. “Today, we will smoke out the thieves and brigands who inhabit the caves. I could have hammered the cliffs with catapults. In months or years, I could have reduced them to rubble, but I chose not to because of those statues. They remind me that what we make can survive us.”