Authors: Conn Iggulden
Kublai felt an itch in his armpit and worked his thumb under the iron scales to scratch the sores there, grunting at the small pleasure. Life was good. He had seen his Chin estates, and in his mind’s eye, green shoots were rising quickly from the black earth. Just sinking a few painted poles into the soft ground had marked a grand new venture in his life. Yao Shu had arranged the lease of thousands of plots, with the rent to be paid from the first crops. If the Chin farmers prospered,
two fifths would be Kublai’s and the money would go to making a city in the north.
It was a dream worth having, something beyond the mass of warriors and horses that filled his sight to the horizons. Though it was little more than a vast square marked out on grassland, his men had already begun calling it Shang-du, the “Upper Capital.” Those who did not speak the Chin languages called it Xanadu. He whispered the word aloud.
With a sigh, Chabi wiped a hand across her brow and told Zhenjin to carry the platter inside for the stove. Kublai’s mouth filled with saliva. He was always hungry these days. His wife stood and stretched her own back. He looked over at her and their eyes met, united in their weariness. His mind lost the visions of palaces as his stomach rumbled.
“Did you get me a skin of wine?” he said.
“Of course,” she replied, “though I hope you will not leave it empty again and complain tomorrow about how your head is bursting. There will be no sympathy from me.”
“I never complain!” he said, wounded. “I am like a stone for keeping silent.”
“Was that some other man stumbling around the ger this morning, then? Cursing and demanding to know who had stolen his hat? I thought it was you. In fact, I hope it was you, because he was very active last night, whoever he was.”
“You were dreaming, woman.”
She grinned at him and flicked her long hair back from her face, working quickly with her hands to tie it. He stared deliberately at her breasts as they moved under the cloth and she snorted.
“There is a fresh bucket of water at the door for you to wash, old goat. Don’t stay out here dreaming, so the food gets cold. I know you will complain anyway, but I will ignore you.”
She went inside and Kublai could hear her berating Zhenjin for stealing some of the pouches. Kublai chuckled to himself. When he had set out from Karakorum, he had not known how long it would take to reach the Sung lands. It was almost two years since Mongke
had become khan and Kublai had spent a year of that simply traveling, moving his great host south, day after day. His tumans were with their families and there was no sense of impatience in their ranks. They did not need to stop to live. For them, the journey was as much their lives as reaching the destination. In the evenings, they played with their children, sang, gambled, made love, tended the animals or a thousand other small things that they could do anywhere. For a man who had lived most of his life in Karakorum, it was a strange thing to see.
Kublai had kept his oath to Mongke and not opened a single scroll or book since leaving the city. At first, it had been a terrible hardship and he had slept badly, dreaming of old texts. On the borders of Sung lands there were many signs of that ancient culture. They had already passed through hundreds of small towns and villages and Kublai had not been able to resist snapping up written works when he found them. His growing collection traveled with him like an itch at the back of his mind.
It had been Yao Shu who offered to read them to him in the evenings. Though Kublai was uncomfortable at skirting his oath, he could not deny it was a comfort. His son, Zhenjin, seemed to enjoy the droning voice and sat up late when he should have been asleep, listening to every word. Kublai’s mind had suffered like a desert in time of drought and the ideas poured in, reviving him.
His body too had toughened in the months of travel. Saddle sores were just a painful memory. Like the experienced warriors, he had developed a sheath of dark yellow callus on his lower spine, about the width of a man’s hand across. He reached behind him to scratch it, frowning at the sweat-slick that stayed on his skin no matter how often he bathed. Mongke could not object to his being clean, at least. Though he wore the scaled armor, Kublai suffered less with rashes and skin rot than his men. In the humid summer, a scent of bad meat overlaid even the odor of wet wool and horses. Kublai still missed the cool Chin robes he had grown to love.
The orlok of his tumans had a ger in sight of Kublai’s, with three women and a host of servants tending his every need. Kublai squinted
to see Uriang-Khadai standing over one of them, giving some instruction about the best way to stitch a saddle. The orlok’s back was arrow-straight, as always. Kublai snorted to himself. He had already decided Uriang-Khadai was Mongke’s man, the khan’s eyes on their expedition. The orlok was an experienced officer of the sort who would certainly impress his brother. He had even scarred his cheeks to prevent a beard growing. The keloid ridges proclaimed that he put duty above self, though Kublai saw it as a sort of twisted vanity.
As Kublai watched, Uriang-Khadai felt the scrutiny and turned sharply to face him. Caught staring, Kublai raised his hand as if in greeting, but the orlok pretended he had not seen and turned away to his own ger, his own little world within the camp. Kublai suspected the man saw him as a mere scholar, given authority by his brother for no great merit. When they met each day, he could see Uriang-Khadai’s subtle amusement as Kublai laid out his strategies. There was little liking between them, but it did not truly matter, as long as he continued to obey. Kublai yawned again. He could smell his meal on the breeze and his mouth ached for wine to take the edge off his thoughts. It was the only way to ease his mind, to stop it tearing every idea to pieces and then making new things with the scraps. With a last look around him, he realized he could relax. Some of the tension left his shoulders and back as he ducked into the ger and was immediately ambushed by Zhenjin, who had waited patiently for him.
THE TUMANS WERE NEVER QUITE ALONE AS THEY DRIFTED
south. With such a vast and slow assemblage, they could not possibly surprise the Sung nation. There were always scouts watching from the nearest hills. Word had gone ahead. The most recent villages were all abandoned, some of them with odd markings of blood in the road. Kublai wondered if the inhabitants had been slaughtered rather than left to give aid to an enemy. He could believe it. Though he loved the culture, he had no illusions about their brutality or the sort of armies his men would face. The Sung outnumbered him by hundreds to one. They had walled cities, cannon and flame weapons,
good steel, crossbows, and excellent discipline. As he trotted his horse, he listed their strengths and weaknesses as he had a thousand times before. Their strengths were intimidating, impossible. The only weaknesses he had been able to think of were that they had few cavalry and that they chose their officers for nobility of birth, or with written examinations in their cities. Compared with men like Uriang-Khadai and Bayar, Kublai hoped the Sung generals would also be considered effete scholars. He could
beat
scholars.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of his scouts ride up to Uriang-Khadai and report. Kublai kept facing forward, though he felt his heart beat faster in anticipation. Four days before, the Mongol column had crossed the Sung border and begun to move east. Whatever the Sung armies had been doing for the months of his approach, they would have to respond. He had been expecting contact. He had done everything he could with their formations and battle plans, but all of that would change when he met the enemy at last. Kublai smiled as a memory of one book flashed into his mind. He did not have to read it again to know every line. He had memorized the work by Sun Tzu many years before. The irony of a book on the art of war being written by a Chin general was not lost on him. The Sung would know it just as well.
Uriang-Khadai rode slowly over to him, deliberately unhurried, though thousands of interested eyes watched the orlok’s progress. He reached Kublai and dipped his head formally.
“The enemy are in the field, my lord,” he said, his voice as clipped and dry as if he discussed the rations. “They have taken up a position on the other side of a river, some twenty miles further east and south. My scouts report two hundred thousand infantry and some ten thousand horsemen.”
His voice was deliberately unimpressed, but Kublai felt sweat break out in his armpits, stinging the scabs there. The numbers were terrifying. He did not think Genghis had ever faced so many, except perhaps at the Badger’s Mouth, far to the north.
“If I may, my lord?” Uriang-Khadai said into the silence.
Kublai nodded for him to go ahead, suppressing his irritation at the man’s pompous tone.
“They could have attacked after we crossed the river, but with it still between us, I suggest we ride on. We can force them away from whatever traps and trenches they have dug. The Yunnan city of Ta-li is only another hundred miles south. If we continue toward it, they will have no choice but to follow.”
Uriang-Khadai waited patiently while Kublai thought. The orlok had not minded Kublai’s endless interference in the supplies and formations. Such things were to be expected from a new man. The battles, however, were the orlok’s responsibility. Mongke himself had made that clear before they left.
“Look after him,” the khan had said. “Don’t let my younger brother get himself killed while he’s in a dream.” The two old campaigners had shared a smile of understanding and then Uriang-Khadai had ridden out. Now the time was upon him and he was prepared to guide Kublai through his first taste of warfare.
While he waited, Uriang-Khadai rubbed the ridge lines of his cheeks. There were a few stubborn bristles that had somehow survived the years of scarring. He was never sure whether he should cut himself again or just yank the things out when they grew long enough. As Kublai pondered, Uriang-Khadai curled one long hair around his finger and jerked it free.
“We must cross the Chin-sha Chiang River,” Kublai said suddenly. He had pictured maps in his imagination, his recall almost perfect. Uriang-Khadai blinked in surprise and Kublai nodded, making his decision.
“That is the name of the river you mentioned, Orlok. It lies between us and the city I have been told to take. We must cross it at some point. They know the ground, which is why they have gathered on that side. They are content to defend it wherever we choose to cross. If we find a fording point, they will slaughter us in the waters, reducing us to the narrow ranks we can put in.”
Uriang-Khadai shook his head, struggling to find the right words to persuade a sheltered academic who had barely left Karakorum in his life.
“My lord, they already have every advantage. We cannot also give them the choice of land, or we risk annihilation. Let me lure them
along the banks for thirty miles. I will have the scouts out looking for places to cross. There will be more than one. We can have archers cover those crossing and then we can come up behind them.”
Kublai could feel the silent pressure from Uriang-Khadai, waiting for him to give way. The man was too obvious and it irritated him.
“As you say, Orlok, they have chosen their ground carefully. They will expect us to rush across the river like the wild tribesmen they think we are and then die in our thousands.” He thought suddenly of a way to get enough men across quickly and he smiled.
“No. We will take them on here, Orlok. We will surprise them.”
Uriang-Khadai stammered for an instant.
“My lord, I must advise against your decision. I—”
“Send General Bayar to me, Uriang-Khadai. Return to the tumans.”
The orlok bowed his head instantly, all sign of his anger vanishing like a snuffed candle.
“Your will, my lord.”
He rode away even more stiff-backed than he had come. Kublai stared sourly after him. It was not long before Bayar was in the orlok’s place, looking worried. He was relatively young for his authority, a man in his early thirties. Unlike Uriang-Khadai, he had a smooth face, except for a wisp of black hair at his chin. There was a strong odor of rot around him. Kublai had long grown used to it as he accepted the man’s greeting. He was in no mood to ease Bayar’s misgivings.
“I have a task for you, General. I order you to carry it out without complaint or argument, do you understand?”
“Yes, my lord,” Bayar replied.
“When I was a boy, I read about warriors with Genghis crossing a river using a sheepskin raft. Have you heard of such a thing?”
Bayar shook his head, flushing slightly.
“I do not have the reading, my lord.”
“Never mind. I recall the idea. You will need to slaughter some six hundred sheep for what I have in mind. Take care to cut them high on the neck, so that the skin is undamaged as it is peeled back. The wool must be shaved away, I believe. This work is delicate, Bayar, so give it to careful men and women in your command.”
Bayar looked blankly at him and Kublai sighed.
“There is no harm in knowing a little history, General. We should not have to relearn every skill each generation. Not when the hard work has already been done. The idea is to sew up the holes in the skins, leaving just one near the neck. Strong men can blow into the skin, using tar or tree sap to seal the gaps. Do you understand? Have vats of both substances put to boil. I do not know which will work best. When they are tight with air, the skins will float, General. Bind them together in a frame of light poles and we will have rafts capable of carrying many men at a time.” He paused to run calculations in his head, one thing Kublai could always do quickly.
“With three rafts, say eighteen hundred sheepskins, we should be able to carry … twelve hundred warriors across the river at a time. In half a day, we could put some twenty thousand men on the opposite side. I will assume another half day to swim horses across, using the rafts to guide them. Yes, with ropes around their necks to help them swim against the current. A day in all, if there are no mishaps. How long will you need to put the rafts together?”