Empire of Silver (21 page)

The duke had seen the burnt dead in Riazan. He forced himself to go faster for a few steps, but then his leg crumpled as if he had no control over it. He hit the ground hard and bit his tongue, feeling sour blood fill his mouth.

Weak and still dazed, he turned over and spat. He could not kneel to gasp and recover. His knee was still too painful even to touch. Instead, he reached out to a wall and dragged himself up with his arms. At any moment, he expected to hear running footsteps as the Mongol animals caught him, drawn by the scent of blood perhaps. Yaroslav turned to face them, knowing he could run no longer.

From the deep shadows by the wall of a house, he saw a group of Mongols on foot, leading their horses as they followed his tracks. He groaned at the sight. The snow was still falling, but his prints would be visible for another hour, more. They had not yet seen him, but a child could follow that path. He looked around desperately for some bolt-hole, painfully aware that all his soldiers were at the barracks. His family would already be on the road west and south to Kiev. If he knew Konstantin, the grizzled old soldier would send a hundred of the best men and horses with them.

Yaroslav did not know if the rest would stay and fight or simply melt away into the darkness, leaving the citizens to their fate. He could already smell smoke on the air, but he could not drag his gaze from the men hunting him. In his delirium, he thought he had come further, but they were no more than fifty or sixty paces away. They were already pointing in his direction.

A rider came trotting down the road from the bridge. Yaroslav saw the men straighten from where they stared at his tracks. To his eyes, they looked like dogs faced with a wolf and they stood with their heads down. The man snapped orders at them and three of the four immediately began to move. The last one stared into the shadows that hid the duke as if he could see him. Yaroslav held his breath until his senses swam. Finally, the last man nodded grimly and mounted his pony, turning the animal back to the bridge.

The duke watched them go with mixed emotions. He could hardly believe he would live, but at the same time he had discovered the Mongols had discipline, ranks and tactics. Someone higher up had told them to take and hold the bridge. The brief chase had dragged them away, but the structure of some sort of regular army had found them and dragged them back. He had survived, but he had yet to face them in the field and the task ahead had suddenly become a great deal harder.

He staggered as he set off again, the pain making him swear under his breath. He knew the street of weavers. The barracks was not too far away. He could only pray there was someone still there waiting for him.

Tsubodai stood alone in a stone tower, looking out over the frozen city. To reach the window, he had inched past a massive bronze bell, dark green with age. As he stared across the night, parts of it were lit by flames, spots of gold and flickering yellow. He drummed his fingers on the engraved surface of the bell, listening idly to the deep tone that went on for a long time.

The vantage point suited him perfectly. In the light of distant flames, he could see the result of his sudden strike along the ice road. Below him, Mongol warriors were already running wild. He could hear their laughter as they tore silk hangings
from the walls and threw goblets and chalices across the stone floors, unimaginably ancient. There was screaming below, as well as laughter.

There had been little resistance. What soldiers there were had been slaughtered quickly as the Mongols spread through the streets. The conquering of a city was always bloody. The men received no gold or silver from Tsubodai or their generals. Instead, they expected to loot and take slaves wherever he led them. It made them hungry as they stared at city walls, but when they were inside, his officers had to stand back.

Not one of them could control the minghaans after that. It was their right to hunt women and men through the streets, drunk on wine and violence. It offended Tsubodai’s senses to see the warriors reduced to such a state. As a commander, he had to keep a few minghaans sober in case a counter-attack appeared, or a new enemy hove into view in the morning. The tumans had drawn lots for those unlucky ones who would stand and shiver all night, listening to the screams and revelry and wishing they were allowed to join in.

Tsubodai thinned his lips in irritation. The city had to burn, he had no qualms about that. He cared nothing for the fate of the citizens within. They were not his people. Still, it seemed…wasteful, undignified. It offended his sense of order to have his tumans run riot the moment a city wall fell. He smiled wearily at the thought of how they would respond if he offered them regular pay and salt instead of loot. Genghis had once told him he should never give an order they would not obey. He should never let them see the limits of his authority. The truth was that he
could
have called them back from the city. They would form up at his order, dropping everything, drunk or sober, to ride back. They would certainly do it once. Just once.

He heard raucous laughter coming closer. A woman’s voice whimpered and he blew air out in irritation as he realised the men were coming up the steps. In just moments, he saw two
of his warriors dragging a young woman as they looked for a quiet place. The first one froze as he saw the orlok, standing at the bell-tower window of the cathedral. The warrior was roaring drunk, but Tsubodai’s gaze had a way of cutting through the fog. Caught by surprise, the man tried to bow on the steps and stumbled. His companion behind him called out an insult.

‘I will leave you in peace, orlok,’ the warrior said, slurring and dipping his head. His companion heard and fell silent, but the woman continued to struggle.

Tsubodai turned his gaze on her and frowned. Her clothes were well made, of good materials. She was the daughter of some wealthy family, probably already killed before her. Her dark brown hair had been bound in a silver clasp but it had torn half-free, so it hung in long tresses, swinging as she tried to pull away from the grip of the warriors. She looked at Tsubodai and he saw her terror. He almost turned and let them retreat. The warriors were not so drunk that they would dare move until he dismissed them. He had no living children himself, no daughters.

‘Leave her here,’ Tsubodai snapped, surprising himself even as he spoke. He was the ice general, the man without emotion. He understood the weaknesses of others, he did not share them. Yet the cathedral was beautiful in its way, with great fluted arches of stone that appealed to him. He told himself it was those things that touched his sensibilities, not the girl’s animal panic.

The warriors let go of her and vanished back down the steps at a great pace, pleased to get away without a punishment or extra duties. As the clatter of their boots faded, Tsubodai turned again to look out over the city. There were more fires by then and parts of Moscow glowed red with flame. By morning, much of it would be ashes, the stones so hot they would crack and burst apart in the walls.

He heard her panting and the slight scrape as she sank down the wall.

‘Can you understand me?’ he asked in the Chin tongue, turning.

She looked blankly at him and he sighed. The Russian language had little in common with either of the tongues he knew. He had picked up a few words, but nothing that would let her know she was safe. She stared at him and he wondered how a father would feel in such a position. She knew she could not escape back down the stairs. Violent, drunken men roamed the church and streets around it. She would not get far. It was quieter in the bell tower and Tsubodai sighed as she began to sob softly to herself, bringing her knees up to her chest and keening like a child.

‘Be silent,’ he snapped, suddenly irritated with her for spoiling his moment of peace. She had lost her shoes somewhere, he noticed. Her feet were scratched and bare. She had fallen silent at his tone and he watched her for a while until she looked up at him. He held up his hands, showing they were empty.

‘Menya zavout Tsubodai,’ he said slowly, pointing at his chest. He could not ask her name. He waited patiently and she lost some of her tension.

‘Anya,’ she said. A torrent of sound followed that Tsubodai could not follow. He had all but exhausted his stock of words.

In his own language, he went on. ‘Stay here,’ he said, gesturing. ‘You are safe here. I will go now.’

He began to walk past her and at first she flinched. When she realised he was trying to step past onto the stone steps, she cried out in fear and spoke again, her eyes wide.

Tsubodai sighed to himself. ‘All right. I will stay. Tsubodai stay. Until the sun comes up, understand? Then I will leave. The soldiers will leave. You can find your family then.’

She saw he was turning back to the window. Nervously, she crept further into the room so that she sat at his feet.

‘Genghis Khan,’ Tsubodai muttered. ‘Have you heard the name?’
He saw her eyes widen and nodded to himself. A rare bitterness showed in his expression.

‘They will talk of him for a thousand years, Anya. Longer. Yet Tsubodai is unknown. The man who won his battles for him, who followed his orders. The name of Tsubodai is just smoke on the breeze.’

She could not understand him, but his voice was soothing and she pulled her legs in tighter, making herself small against his feet.

‘He is dead now, girl. Gone. I am left to atone for my sins. You Christians understand that, I think.’

She looked blankly at him and her lack of understanding freed words that were lodged deep in his chest.

‘My life is no longer my own,’ Tsubodai said softly. ‘My word is worthless. But duty goes on, Anya, while there is breath. It is all I have left.’

The air was frozen and he saw she was shivering. With a sigh, he removed his cloak and draped it over her. He watched as she curled into its folds until only her face showed. The cold intensified without the warm cloth around his shoulders, but he welcomed the discomfort. His spirits were in turmoil and sadness swelled in him as he rested his hands on the stone sill and waited for the dawn.

Yao Shu fumed as he faced Sorhatani. Even the air in the room was subtly scented as it had not been before. She wore her new status like heavy robes, taking delight in the number of servants attending her. Through Ogedai, she had been given the titles of her husband. At a single stroke, she controlled the heartlands of the Mongol plains, the birthplace of Genghis himself. Yao Shu could not help but wonder if the khan had considered all the implications when he made the offer to Tolui before his death.

Another woman would have quietly managed the lands and titles for her sons until she passed them on. Surely that was what Ogedai had intended. Yet Sorhatani had done more. Only that morning, Yao Shu had been forced to stamp and seal an order for funds from the khan’s treasury. Tolui’s personal seal had been used on the papers and, as chancellor, Yao Shu could not refuse it. Under his sour-faced glare, vast sums of gold and silver had been packed into wooden crates and delivered to
her guards. He could only imagine what she would do with enough precious metal to build herself a palace or a village, or a road into the wilderness.

As Yao Shu sat in her presence, he ran a Buddhist mantra through his mind, bringing calm to his thoughts. She had granted him an audience as his superior, fully aware of how her manner irked the khan’s chancellor. It was not lost on him that Ogedai’s own servants scurried to serve them tea. No doubt Sorhatani had chosen ones he would know personally, to demonstrate her power.

Yao Shu remained silent as he was handed the shallow bowl. He sipped, noting the quality of Chin leaf that had been used. It was probably from the khan’s personal supply, brought at immense cost from the tea plantations at Hangzhou. Yao Shu frowned to himself as he put the cup down. In just a few months, Sorhatani had made herself indispensable to the khan. Her energy was extraordinary, but Yao Shu could still be surprised at how deftly she had read the khan’s needs. What was particularly galling was that Yao Shu had respected the orders he had been given. He had accepted Ogedai’s need for privacy and seclusion. The chancellor had done nothing wrong, yet somehow she had bustled into the palace, wielding her sudden authority over servants as if she had been born to it. In less than a day, she had furnished and aired a suite of rooms close by Ogedai’s own. The servants assumed the khan’s approval and though Yao Shu suspected she had overreached his favour a hundred times over, Sorhatani had dug herself into the palace like a tick burrowing under skin. He watched her closely as she sipped her own tea. Her robe of fine green silk was not lost on him, nor the way her hair was bound in silver and her skin dusted with pale powder, so that she looked almost like porcelain, cool and perfect. The robes and manner of a Chin noblewoman were deliberately assumed, but she returned his gaze with the calm directness of her own people.
In itself, her stare was a challenge to him and he struggled not to respond.

‘The tea is fresh, chancellor?’ she asked.

He inclined his head. ‘It is very good, but I must ask…’

‘You are comfortable? Shall I have the servants bring a cushion for your back?’

Yao Shu rubbed one of his ears before settling himself again.

‘I need no cushions, Sorhatani. What I need is an explanation of the orders that were delivered to my rooms last night.’

‘Orders, chancellor? Surely such things are between you and the khan? It is certainly no business of mine.’

Her eyes were wide and guileless and he covered his irritation by signalling for more of the tea. He sipped the pungent liquid once more before trying again.

‘As I’m sure you know, Sorhatani, the khan’s Guards will not let me speak to him.’

It was a humiliating admission and he coloured as he spoke, wondering how she had come between Ogedai and the world with such neatness. All the men around the khan had respected his wishes. She had ignored them, treating Ogedai as if he were an invalid or a child. The gossip in the palace was that she doted on him like a mother hen with a chick, but instead of being irritated, Ogedai seemed to find relief in being cosseted. Yao Shu could only hope for his swift recovery, that he might throw the she-wolf out of the palace and rule again in earnest.

‘If you wish, chancellor, I can ask the khan about the orders you say were sent to you. However, he has been unwell in spirit and body. Answers cannot be demanded from him until he is strong again.’

‘I am aware of that, Sorhatani,’ Yao Shu said. He clenched his teeth for an instant, so that she saw the muscles ripple in his jaw. ‘Nonetheless, there has been some mistake. I do not think the khan wishes me to leave Karakorum for some
pointless tax-gathering tally in the northern Chin towns. I would be away from the city for months.’

‘Still, if those are your orders,’ she said, shrugging. ‘We obey, Yao Shu, do we not?’

His suspicions hardened, though he could not see how she could have been the author of the command to send him away. It made him more determined to remain and challenge her control of the khan in his weakened state.

‘I will send a colleague. I am needed here, in Karakorum.’

Sorhatani frowned delicately. ‘You take great risks, chancellor. In the khan’s state of health, it would not do to anger him with disobedience.’

‘I do have other work, such as bringing the khan’s wife back from the summer palace where she has languished these long months.’

It was Sorhatani’s turn to look uncomfortable.

‘He has not called for Torogene,’ she said.

‘She is not his servant,’ he replied. ‘She was most interested in your care of her husband. When she heard you were in such close contact, I am told she was keen to return and thank you personally.’

Sorhatani’s eyes were cold as she regarded the chancellor, their mutual loathing barely hidden by the facade of manners and calm.

‘You have spoken to her?’

‘By letter, of course. I believe she will be arriving in just a few days.’ In a moment of inspiration, he embroidered the truth a little for his benefit, playing the game. ‘She has asked that I be here to receive her, so that she can be told all the latest news of the city. You see now why I cannot go haring off at such a time.’

Sorhatani bowed her head slightly, giving him the point.

‘You have been…conscientious in your duties, I see,’ she said. ‘There is a great deal to do to welcome back the wife of the khan. I must thank you for letting me know in time.’

A tic had begun high on her forehead, evidence of internal strain. Yao Shu watched it in delight, knowing she felt his gaze on that spot. He chose his moment to add to her discomfort.

‘For my own part, I would also have wanted to discuss the permission Ogedai gave for his nephew to travel to Tsubodai.’

‘What?’ Sorhatani said, shaken from her reverie. ‘Mongke will not be an observer of the future, chancellor. He will help to shape it. It is right that my son is present as Tsubodai secures the west. Or should the orlok take all the credit for giving us a safe border?’

‘I’m sorry, I did not mean your own son. I meant Baidur, the son of Chagatai. He too is following in Tsubodai’s steps. Oh, I thought you would have heard.’

He tried not to smile as he spoke. For all her connections at the heart of the city, Sorhatani had no access to his network of spies and gossip-mongers stretching for thousands of miles in every direction, at least not yet. He watched as she mastered her surprise and her emotions settled. It was impressive control and he had to remind himself that her beauty hid sharper wits than most.

Yao Shu leaned forward so the servants around them could not easily overhear.

‘If you are truly one who looks to the future, I am surprised you did not consider Baidur joining the great trek west. His father is next in line to be khan, after all.’

‘After Ogedai’s son, Guyuk,’ Sorhatani snapped.

Yao Shu nodded. ‘All being well, of course, but it was not so many years ago that these corridors and rooms were full of armed men contesting just such an event. May it never happen again. The princes are gathering, Sorhatani, with Tsubodai. If you are planning to have your sons reach for the khanate one day, you should be aware of the stakes involved. Guyuk, Batu and Baidur have as strong a claim as your own, don’t you think?’

She glared at him as if he had raised a hand to her. He smiled and stood, the meeting at an end.

‘I will leave you to your tea and fine things, Sorhatani. I have found such luxuries are fleeting, but do enjoy them for the moment.’

As he left her sitting in thought, he promised himself that he would be there to witness the khan’s wife returning to Karakorum. It was one pleasure he would not deny himself after so many months of strain.

The soldiers stood and shivered in the shadow of the huge gate. Like the stockade around them, it was made of ancient black logs, lashed together with ropes that became brittle in the winter cold. There were men in the stockade whose daily task was to walk the outer line, stepping carefully along a tiny walkway. With frozen hands, they checked each rope was still like iron in the cold. It took them the best part of the day. The stockade was more like a town than a camp and many thousands were crammed inside.

The yard in front of the gate was a good place to stand, Pavel thought, a safe place. He was there because he had been among the last to come in the night before. Yet the soldiers who stamped and shoved their hands into their armpits for warmth felt its strength looming over them. They tried not to think of the moments to come when the gate would be heaved open by snorting oxen and they would go out among the wolves.

Pavel stood back from the men close to the gate. He felt his sword nervously, wanting to draw it again and look at it. His grandfather had told him the importance of keeping it sharp. He had not told him what to do if he was given a blade older than he was himself, with more nicks, cuts and scratches than he could believe. Pavel had seen some of the real soldiers run a whetstone along their swords, but he had not had the courage
to ask to borrow one. They did not look like the sort of men who would lend anything to a boy. He had not seen the grand duke yet, though Pavel had craned his neck and stood as tall as he could. That would be something to tell his grandfather when he went home again. His dedushka remembered Krakow and, in his cups, the old man claimed to have seen the king when he was young, though it might have been just a story.

Pavel longed for a glimpse of the freemen adventurers, the Qasaks the duke had bought for the campaign with a river of gold. He tried not to get his hopes up that his father could be among them. Part of him saw the sadness in his grandfather’s eyes whenever he spoke of the brave young man who had gone to join the horsemen. Pavel had seen his mother weep in the house when she thought he couldn’t hear. He suspected his father had simply abandoned them, as so many did when the winters were too hard. He had always been a wanderer. They had left Krakow looking for land of their own to buy, but farm work had turned out to be one step from starvation and with little more joy. If anything, the Russian farmers were worse off than those they had left behind.

There were always men who travelled to Kiev or Moscow looking for work. They promised they would send money to their families, but few ever did and fewer still came back. Pavel shook his head. He was not a child, hoping for a little truth in all the lies. He had a sword and he would fight for the duke alongside those fierce, coarse riders. He smiled, amused at himself. He would still look for his father’s face among them, tired and lined with hard work, with the hair cropped close to the skull against lice. He hoped he would be able to recognise him after so long. The Qasaks were somewhere outside the stockade, riding their horses in the snow.

The cold was biting as the sun came up, the ground rubbed to slush by men and horses. Pavel wrung his hands together and cursed aloud as he was jostled from behind. He enjoyed
cursing. The men around him used terms he had never heard before and he growled a good blasphemy at his unseen assailant. His irritation faded as he saw it was just a runner boy carrying dough balls stuffed with meat and herbs. Pavel’s hands were quick and he lifted two of the steaming lumps as the boy struggled to get past him. The boy swore at the theft, but Pavel ignored him, cramming one into his mouth before someone noticed and took it away. The taste was glorious and the juices dribbled down his chin and under the mailed jerkin he had been given just that morning. He had felt like a man then, with a man’s weight to carry. He had thought he would be frightened, but there were thousands of soldiers in the stockade and many more Qasaks outside. They did not seem afraid, though many of the faces were stern and quiet. Pavel did not speak to those who wore beards or heavy moustaches. He was still hoping to grow whiskers of his own, but there was nothing there yet. He thought guiltily of his father’s razor in the barn. For a month or so, he’d gone out there every evening to run it up and down his cheeks. The boys in the village said it made the hair grow faster, but there was precious little sign of it on him, at least so far.

Horns sounded somewhere distant and men began shouting orders all around him. There was no time to eat the second dough ball, so Pavel shoved it down his jerkin, feeling the heat spread against his skin. He wished his grandfather could have been there to see him. The old man had been away from home, gathering firewood from miles out so that the easy stocks would still be there as winter tightened its grip. His mother had wept, of course, when Pavel brought the duke’s recruiter to the back door. With the man watching, she hadn’t been able to refuse him, just as he’d planned it. He’d walked tall behind the recruiter and he still remembered the combination of excitement and nervousness in the faces of the others on the road. Some of them were older than Pavel and one had a
beard that reached almost to his chest. He’d been disappointed not to see any of the other village lads there. No doubt they had run from the recruiters. He’d heard of boys hiding in hay barns and even lying down with cattle to avoid the duke’s call. Their fathers were not Qasaks. Pavel hadn’t looked back at the village as he’d left, or only once at least, to see his mother come to the boundary and hold up her hand to him. He hoped his grandfather would be proud when he heard. Pavel wasn’t sure how the old man would react, but at least he’d miss the beating, if that was the result. He grinned at the thought of the old devil standing in the yard with the chickens, with no one to take his strap to.