Authors: Conn Iggulden
Jochi felt his energy flag and summoned his will. He would have liked longer for his arm to heal. Yet he had seen Tsubodai bind men together and he was eager to begin the work.
“I see men before me,” he called to them. His voice was strong and many grinned. “I see warriors, but I do not yet see an army.” The grins faltered and he gestured to the vast array of carts rolling out of the mountains behind them.
“Our people have enough men to keep out the wolves,” he said. “Ride with me today and I will see what I can make of you.”
He dug in his heels, though his legs had already begun to ache.
Behind him, ten thousand men began to trot out onto the plains. He would run them ragged, he told himself, until they were blind with exhaustion, or until his limbs hurt so much he could not stand it any longer. Jochi smiled at the thought. He would endure. He always had.
The city of Otrar was one of the many jewels of Khwarezm, made rich at the crossroads of ancient empires. It had guarded the west for a thousand years, taking a part of the wealth that flowed along the trade roads. Its walls protected thousands of brick houses, some of them three stories high and painted white against the hard sun. The streets were always busy and a man could buy anything in the world in Otrar if he had enough gold. Its governor, Inalchuk, gave offerings each day in the mosque and made public displays of his devotion to the teachings of the prophet. In private, he drank forbidden wine and kept a house of women chosen from the slaves of a dozen races, all picked for his pleasure.
As the sun dipped toward the hills, Otrar cooled slowly and the streets lost their mad energy as men and women returned home. Inalchuk wiped sweat from his eyes and lunged at his sword instructor. The man was quick and there were times when Inalchuk thought he allowed his master to take points. He did not mind as long as the instructor was clever. If he left too obvious an opening, Inalchuk struck with greater force, leaving a welt or a bruise. It was a game, as all things were games.
Out of the corner of his eye, Inalchuk saw his chief scribe halt on the edge of the courtyard. His instructor darted at him to punish the moment of inattention, and Inalchuk fell back before striking low so that the point of his blunt sword sank into the man’s stomach. The instructor fell heavily and Inalchuk laughed.
“You will not tempt me to lift you up, Akram. Once is enough for each trick.”
The instructor smiled and leapt to his feet, but the light was fading and Inalchuk bowed to him before handing over the blade.
As the sun set, Inalchuk heard the voices of the muezzins call the greatness of God across Otrar. It was time for evening prayers and the courtyard began to fill with the members of his household. They carried mats and lined up in rows, their heads bowed. Inalchuk led them in the responses, the thoughts and worries of the day vanishing as he took the first position.
As they chanted in unison, Inalchuk looked forward to breaking
the day’s fast. Ramadan was close to its end and even he did not dare to ignore its disciplines. Servants chattered like birds and he knew better than to provide them with evidence against him for the shari’a courts. As he prostrated himself, touching his forehead to the ground, he thought of the women he would choose to bathe him. Even in the holy month, all things were possible after sunset, and a man was king in his own home. He would have honey brought and dribble it onto the back of his current favorite as he enjoyed her.
“Allahu Akbar!” he said aloud. God is great. Honey was a wonderful thing, he thought, the gift of Allah to all men. Inalchuk could have eaten it every day if it were not for his expanding waist. There was a price for every pleasure, it seemed.
He prostrated himself once more, a model of piety in front of his household. The sun had set during the ritual and Inalchuk was starving. He rolled his prayer mat and walked swiftly through the yard, his scribe falling in behind him.
“Where is the army of the khan?” Inalchuk called over his shoulder. His scribe fussed with a sheaf of papers as he always did, though Inalchuk did not doubt he had the answer ready. Zayed bin Saleh had grown old in his service, but age had not dulled his intelligence.
“The Mongol army moves slowly, master,” Zayed said. “Allah be thanked for that. They darken the earth all the way back to the mountains.”
Inalchuk frowned, the image of honey-covered skin vanishing from his imagination.
“More than we thought before?”
“Perhaps a hundred thousand fighting men, master, though I cannot be sure with so many carts. They ride as a great snake on the land.”
Inalchuk smiled at the image.
“Even such a snake has but one head, Zayed. If the khan is troublesome, I will have the assassins cut it off.”
The scribe grimaced, showing teeth like yellow ivory.
“I would rather embrace a scorpion than deal with those Shia mystics, master. They are dangerous in more than just their daggers. Do they not reject the Caliphs? They are not true men of Islam, I think.”
Inalchuk laughed, clapping Zayed on the shoulder.
“They frighten you, little Zayed, but they can be bought and there is no one as good. Did they not leave a poisoned cake on Saladin’s own chest as he slept?
That
is what matters. They honor their contracts and all their dark madness is just for show.”
Zayed shuddered delicately. The assassins ruled in their mountain fortresses and even the Shah himself could not command them to come out. They worshipped death and violence and Zayed felt Inalchuk should not be so casual in speaking of them, even in his own home. He hoped his silence would be taken as a subtle reproof, but Inalchuk went on as another thought struck him.
“You have not mentioned word from Shah Mohammed,” he said. “Can it be that he has not yet answered?”
Zayed shook his head. “There are no reinforcements yet, master. I have men waiting for them to the south. I will know as soon as they appear.”
They had reached the bathing complex in the governor’s house. As a male slave, Zayed could not pass through the door, and Inalchuk paused with him, thinking through his orders.
“My cousin has more than a million men under arms, Zayed, more than enough to crush this army of carts and skinny goats. Send another message with my personal seal. Tell him… two hundred thousand Mongol warriors have come through the mountains. Perhaps he will understand my garrison can only retreat before so many.”
“The Shah may not believe they will strike at Otrar, master. There are other cities without our walls.”
Inalchuk made a tutting sound and ran a hand down the oiled curls of his beard.
“Where else would they come? It was here that I had the khan’s men flogged in the marketplace. Here that we made a pile of hands as high as a man’s waist. Did my cousin not guide me in that? I have followed his orders in the knowledge that his army would be ready to throw these Mongols back on their heels. Now I have called and still he delays.”
Zayed did not respond. The walls of Otrar had never been broken, but Arab merchants were beginning to come in from Chin lands. They talked of the Mongols using machines that could smash cities. It was not beyond possibility that the Shah had decided to let the Otrar garrison test the mettle of the Mongol khan. Twenty thousand men rested within the walls, but Zayed did not feel confident.
“Remind my cousin that I once saved his life when we were boys together,” Inalchuk said. “He has never repaid that debt to me.”
Zayed bowed his head. “I will have word sent to him, master, by the fastest horses.”
Inalchuk nodded curtly, disappearing inside the door. Zayed watched
him go and frowned to himself. The master would rut like a dog in heat until dawn, leaving the campaign planning to his servants.
Zayed did not understand lust, any more than he understood men like the assassins who chose to eat the sticky brown lumps of hashish that banished fear and made them writhe with the desire to kill. When he was young, his body had tormented him, but one blessing of old age was relief from the demands of flesh. The only true pleasure he had ever known came from planning and scholarship.
Zayed realized dimly that he would need to eat to sustain himself in the long night ahead. He had more than a hundred spies in the path of the Mongol army, and their reports came in every hour. He heard his master’s rhythmic grunting begin and shook his head as if at a wayward child. To act in such a way when the world was ready to topple mystified him. Zayed did not doubt Shah Mohammed had visions of becoming a new Saladin. Inalchuk had been just a child, but Zayed remembered the reign of the great king. He cherished memories of Saladin’s warriors passing through Bukhara to Jerusalem more than thirty years before. It had been a golden time!
The Shah would not let Otrar fall, Zayed was almost certain. There were many leaders who had come to his banners, but they would be watching for weakness. It was the curse of all strong men, and the Shah could not give up a wealthy city. After all, the Chin had never been weaker. If Genghis could be stopped at Otrar, there was a world to win.
Zayed heard his master’s grunting passion grow in volume and sighed. No doubt Inalchuk had his own eyes on the Shah’s throne. If the Mongols could be broken quickly, perhaps it was even in his reach.
The corridor was cool after sunset and Zayed barely noticed the slaves lighting oil lamps along its length. He was not tired. That too was a blessing of old age, that he needed very little sleep. He shuffled away into the gloom, his mind on a thousand things he had to do before dawn.
JEBE HAD LOST COUNT
of the miles he had ridden in a month away from the khan’s army. At first he had headed south, coming across a vast lake in the shape of a crescent. Jebe had never seen such a body of fresh water, so wide that even the sharp-eyed scouts could not see the other side. For days he and his men had speared fat green fish they could not name, feasting on the flesh before moving on. Jebe had decided against trying to swim the horses across and took his tuman along the clay banks. The land teemed with animals they could eat, from gazelles and ibex to a brown bear that came bellowing out of a copse and almost reached a raiding group before arrows brought it down. Jebe had the bearskin draped over his horse’s back, thick with rotting fat. He hoped to smoke-cure the skin before it was too far gone. Falcons and eagles soared the warm winds above their heads and the hills and green valleys reminded Jebe of home.
As Genghis had ordered, he left small villages alone, his men riding past in a dark mass as farmers ran or stared in dull fear. Such men reminded Jebe of cattle and he could only shudder at living such a life, trapped in one place for all time. He had destroyed four large towns and more than a dozen road forts, leaving the loot buried in marked spots in the hills. His men were coming to know him as leader, and they rode with their heads up, enjoying his style of striking fast and
covering huge distances in just a few days. Arslan had been more cautious as a general, but he had taught Jebe well and the younger man drove them hard. He had a name to make among the generals, and he allowed no weakness or hesitation in those who followed him.
If a town surrendered quickly, Jebe sent its merchants north and east to where he thought Genghis might have reached with the slower carts. He promised them gold and tempted them with Chin coins as proof of the generosity they would receive. Many of them had been forced to watch their homes burned to the ground and had no love for the young Mongol general, but they accepted the gifts and rode away. They could not rebuild with Genghis coming south, and Jebe found them more pragmatic than his own people, more accepting of the fate that can raise one man and break another with no cause or reason. He did not admire the attitude, though it suited his own purposes well enough.
By the end of the new moon, which Jebe had learned was the Arab month of Ramadan, he reached a new range of mountains to the south of the crescent lake. Otrar was to the west and further on lay the golden cities of the Shah, with names Jebe could hardly pronounce. He learned of Samarkand and Bukhara and had Arab farmers draw their locations on rough maps that Genghis would value. Jebe did not travel to see those walled places. When he did, it would be with the Mongol host at his back.
As the moon vanished, Jebe rode on one last sweep into the hills of the south, mapping sources of water and keeping his men fit. He was almost ready to return and go to war. Though his tuman had stayed out for more than a moon’s turn, he had no gers with him and made his camp in a sheltered valley, with scouts posted on all the peaks around him. It was one of those who rode back into camp, his pony lathered with sweat.
“I have seen riders, General, in the distance.”
“Did they spot you?” Jebe asked.
The young warrior shook his head proudly. “Not in this life, General. It was in the last light before the sun set, and I came straight back.” The man hesitated and Jebe waited for him to speak again.
“I thought… they could have been Mongols, General, from the way they rode. It was just a glimpse before the light went, but there were six men riding together and they could have been ours.”
Jebe stood up, his meal of rabbit forgotten at his feet.
“Who else would have come so far south?” he muttered. With a
low whistle, he had his men leaving their rations and mounting all around. It was too dark to ride fast, but he had seen a trail leading through the hills before sunset, and Jebe could not resist moving closer in the darkness. By dawn he would be in position. He passed on his orders to his officers and let them inform the men. In no time at all, they were clicking gently to their mounts, moving into a column.
Without a moon, the night was very dark, but they followed his orders and Jebe grinned to himself. If it was Khasar, or better still, Tsubodai, he would like nothing more than to surprise a Mongol force at dawn. As he walked his mount to the head of the line, he sent scouts out with whispered orders, knowing that the khan’s generals would take pleasure in doing the same to him. Unlike the older men, he had a name to win for himself and he relished the challenge of a new land. Tsubodai’s rise had shown Genghis valued talent over blood, every time.