Bones of the Hills (39 page)

Chagatai yelled fresh orders and if anything, the fighting intensified as more and more of Jochi’s tuman flooded in. The fighting continued and hundreds died to revenge their fallen general, or save him. They did not know. A knot of Jochi’s men broke free with his flopping body held between them, the arrow still sticking out. As they pulled back, senior men blew the signal to disengage on both sides.

Snarling and in pain, the tumans wrenched apart and at last there was clear ground between them. Minghaan officers bullied and kicked their men away, using their sword hilts to knock down more than one
who tried to dart around them. The chain of command reclaimed them and each jagun of a hundred, each arban of ten, had its officer growling at the men to hold.

The tumans stood panting, aghast at the dead and what they had done. The name of Genghis could be heard in whispers, and every man there feared what would happen when the khan heard. No one moved while Jochi was checked by his men, then a ragged cheer echoed across the bowl of hills. The arrow had not penetrated his armor. He lived yet, and when Chagatai heard, he spat on the ground in fury at the luck that followed the rape-born whelp. He endured his leg being splinted with a shard from a broken lance, biting his lip as the swollen flesh was bound to wood in three places between knee and ankle. His men helped him to mount and they echoed the cheer to see him alive, though it was muted and echoed in fear. The battle had been won and now they would leave the bowl of hills together, a blood feud begun that could only be bled or burned to see an end to it.

In the night, Chakahai walked her gray pony through dark streets, with darker men riding beside her. The air was warmer in the city than in the camp, as if the stones of the street kept the heat to breathe it out slowly in darkness. It was easy to be fanciful as she made her way to the palace on a hill, where Genghis waited for her. The city was full of birds, murmuring on every ledge and rooftop. She wondered if they had been disturbed by the movement of soldiers, or always came to sit on the warm tiles of Samarkand. For all she knew, it was a benign, natural thing, but she felt uncomfortable at their presence and could hear fluttering wings overhead.

Away on her right, a woman cried out, unseen. She could see the dim glow of torches as warriors without wives went to the racetrack and took young girls from the arms of their fathers and husbands, leaving the rest for Genghis’s judgment the following dawn. Chakahai winced at the thought, feeling for those who could expect rough hands in the dark. She had lived among the Mongols for many years and found much to love in the people of the sea of grass. Yet they still took women from those they conquered and thought nothing of it. She sighed to herself as she reached the broken wall that gave onto perfumed gardens. It was the tragedy of women to be lusted after and stolen in the night. It happened in her father’s kingdom, in Chin lands
and Arab. Her husband saw nothing wrong in the practice, saying that raids for women kept his men sharp. Chakahai shuddered to herself as if a sudden chill touched her bare arms.

She could smell death over the scent of flowers in the Shah’s gardens. Bodies still lay in huge piles by the wall, already beginning to corrupt in the heat. The air there seemed boiled and old and could not refresh her as she breathed through her nose and tried not to think of the staring eyes of corpses. The odor carried disease, she knew. In the morning, she would make sure Temuge had them taken away and burned before some plague ripped through her husband’s army.

With the armed guards, her horse walked carefully up wide steps designed for men to the palace that loomed blackly on the crest of the hill. As she went, she mulled the question Genghis had asked and what it could mean. She did not understand it and could not shake a sick feeling in her stomach as a result. Surely Kokchu would not be there when she spoke to her husband. If he was, she would ask to see Genghis in private. The thought of the shaman’s fierce eyes boring into her made her illness worse. She sighed, wondering if she was pregnant again, or whether it was just the result of so much grief and anger around her for so long.

Her friend Yao Shu was no great hand with medicine, but he knew the principles of rebalancing. Chakahai resolved to seek him out when she returned to the camp. The Mongols did not seek inner peace and she thought the concentration on violence and hot blood was dangerous to maintain for long periods. There had to be rest and calm, though they knew nothing of the teachings of the Buddha.

Chakahai dismounted as the steps opened into a walled courtyard. Her guards handed her over to others waiting there, and Chakahai followed them through dark corridors, wondering why no one had bothered to light the lamps she saw. Truly, her husband’s race were a strange people. The moon rose outside, casting a gray light through the high arched windows, so that at times, she felt like a ghost walking with dead men. She could still smell the corpses on the sluggish air and struggled to remain calm.

Chakahai found Genghis on a throne in a great vault of a room. Though she wore soft slippers, her steps still echoed like whispers on all sides. The guards remained at the doors and she approached her husband, looking nervously around for sign of his shaman.

Genghis was alone in the Shah’s throne room, staring out over the
city revealed to him through a great arch. The moon made Samarkand looked like an intricate model, stretching away in all directions.

Chakahai followed his gaze and stood for a time in silence, drinking it in. Her father had ruled from such a palace, and the view brought a surprisingly powerful pang of nostalgia. No doubt her husband would move on soon and she would return to a life in the gers, but here, for a time, she could remember the peace and beauty of a great palace and forget the dead who littered the ground around it.

“I am here, husband,” Chakahai said at last. Genghis turned to her, stirring from his reverie.

“Have you seen?” he said, gesturing to the moonlit city. “It is very beautiful.”

Chakahai smiled and nodded. “It reminds me a little of the Xi Xia and my father’s capital.”

Genghis nodded, but she could see he was troubled, his mind barely with her.

“You sent a man to ask me a question,” Chakahai prompted.

Genghis sighed, putting away his thoughts on the future. The day had begun so well, but it had ended with Jochi and Chagatai fighting in front of the men, ripping wounds in his army that even he would struggle to close. He turned weary eyes on his second wife.

“I did. We are alone here,” he said. Chakahai glanced at the guards still standing on the edges of the room, but Genghis did not seem aware of them as he went on. “Tell me why you cannot look on Kokchu without thinking of my sister. What did you mean by that?”

Chakahai stepped close to Genghis and placed her cool hands on his brow as he opened his arms in an embrace. He groaned softly at the touch, letting her ease him. “He found her, husband, after the attack on the camp. When I see him, I see the moment when he came from her ger. His face was wild with grief and it haunts me still.”

Genghis was like a statue as she spoke and she felt him withdraw from her. He took her hands and detached them gently, his grip almost painful.

“He did not find her, Chakahai. One of my men brought me the news when he checked the gers after the Shah had run.”

His eyes were cold in the moonlight as he thought through what she had said.

“You saw him?” Genghis whispered.

Chakahai nodded, a knot of horror stopping her throat. She swallowed it to answer, forcing the words out.

“It was as the fighting ended. I was running and I saw him come from her ger. When I heard she had been killed, I thought he must have carried the news to you.”

“No,” Genghis replied. “He said
nothing
to me, then or after.” He released her hands then and Chakahai staggered slightly, overcome with what she now understood.

“Say nothing, Chakahai,” her husband said. “I will deal with the shaman in my own way.” He cursed softly, tilting his head suddenly so that she could see the grief rising in him. “This has been an evil day.”

Once more she stepped into his arms, touching his face and smoothing away the pain.

“I know it, husband, but it is over now and you can sleep.”

“Not tonight, not after this,” Genghis said in a whisper.

IT WAS ANOTHER THREE DAYS
before Genghis summoned his sons to the audience chamber of the palace in Samarkand. On his orders, Kachiun, Khasar, and Jelme had returned with their tumans, leaving cities in ruins behind them.

The day had been hot and the smell of flames, sweat, and grease was strong in the confined space. Temuge too had been ordered to attend, and with him, almost seven hundred senior officers filled the echoing hall as they waited for Genghis. Yao Shu was there among them, perhaps the only man there who did not command others. The shaman Kokchu crouched at the foot of the throne facing the crowd, his empty stare fixed on the floor.

As the sun set and torches were lit on the walls, Genghis entered without fanfare or retinue, his eyes passing across the crowd and noting the faces of his brothers and his children, from Jochi, Chagatai, Ogedai, and Tolui down to the youngest girl his wife Chakahai had borne for him. The smallest ones stood with their mother and Borte, awed at the high ceiling. They had not seen a city before and they looked up nervously, wondering what prevented it from falling on their heads. One of Chakahai’s boys began to bawl, but it was Borte who picked him up and crooned to him. Other wives of senior men were also in attendance, though Genghis’s mother Hoelun was missing, still isolated in her grief
for a lost daughter. Since Temulun had died, Hoelun had withdrawn from the affairs of the tribes, and both Chakahai and Borte felt the loss of her wisdom keenly.

The khan wore no armor that day. Instead, he had dressed in the simple clothes of one of his herdsmen. A deel robe covered tunic and leggings over soft leather boots. His skin was clean and gleaming with fresh mutton fat. His hair was tied back under a square hat, barely marked with decorative stitching. As the hall filled with yellow light, those closest to him could see gray at his temples, but he looked vital and alert, his presence enough to still the slightest movement in the crowd. Only Tsubodai and Jebe were missing with all their minghaan and jagun officers. Genghis might have waited for them, but there was no word of the hunt and matters pressed upon him, each more urgent than the next.

As he stood with the throne at his back, he met the eyes of Jochi and Chagatai, standing to the fore of the silent crowd. Both bore marks of the battle they had fought. Chagatai leaned heavily on a stick to favor his splinted leg and sweated visibly. Jochi’s face was badly bruised and he too limped when he moved, his cuts barely stanched and beginning to form scabs. They could read nothing from their father. He had adopted the cold face, and even those who knew him well could not judge his mood or guess why he had called them. As Genghis watched, Jochi raised his head, his expression the match for his father’s. He at least did not expect the gathering to turn out well, but he refused to show fear. He had spent three days waiting for some kind of summons. Now it had come, it was almost a relief.

Genghis let the silence grow as he faced them. He knew many of the men and women in the hall. Even those who were strangers were still his people. He knew their faults and weaknesses as well as his own, or better. He had brought them from the hills of home, taken the paths of their lives in his hands and wrenched them together. They were no longer tribes as they waited for the khan to speak. They were his, down to the last child. When he spoke at last, his voice filled the hall, his tone calmer than anyone there expected.

“Tonight I will name my heir,” he said. The spell held and no one moved, though Chagatai and Jochi exchanged a silent flicker of a glance, both very aware of the other.

“I will not live forever,” Genghis went on. “I am old enough to remember when each tribe was at the throat of the rest. I would not see those days return when I am gone. In this room, I have called every
man and woman of power in the nation, barring the ones with Tsubodai and Jebe. I will speak to those separately when they come home. You have all pledged your lives and honor to me. You will do the same for my son.”

He paused, but no one dared to move. In the stifling air, some even held their breath. Genghis nodded to himself.

“I give thanks in front of you to my brother Kachiun, who took the burden of being my heir while my sons grew to manhood.” He sought his brother out and caught Kachiun’s fractional nod.

“Your children will not rule the nation, Kachiun,” Genghis said, knowing his brother understood the need to speak the words aloud. “They may come to rule other peoples and other lands, but the Great Khan will come from my choice and my seed alone. You will be the first to give an oath to my son, then my brothers Khasar and Temuge and every other man and woman here.”

He looked up again at them all, his yellow eyes seeming to strip them bare.

“We are nothing but the oath we give. If you cannot bend a knee to my son, you may leave and take your lives before sunrise. That is the only choice I will allow.” He paused again, closing his eyes for an instant when grief and anger threatened to break through.

“Step forward, Ogedai, my heir,” he said. All eyes turned to the sixteen-year-old warrior. He had grown almost to his father’s height in their time in Arab lands. The slim boy who had returned from a Chin city with Kachiun was barely visible in the hard planes of his face, but he looked very young, rocked by his father’s words. His eyes were as pale as the khan’s, wide and unblinking. He did not move and Borte had to nudge him forward so that he stepped through the packed room, older men making way. Only she and Chakahai had known it was coming. Both women had advised Genghis over the previous days, and for once, he had listened. Tears of pride brimmed in them both.

Genghis ignored the hot eyes of Chagatai and Jochi as he turned his stunned third son to face them.