Empire of Silver (29 page)

For a time, the Templar charge drove on, regardless of losses. It was no easy task to turn the weight of horses and armour aside, but as the destruction mounted, Baidur heard new orders roared across them. The man who gave them became the instant target of every archer in reach. His horse fell, bristling arrows, and the man himself was sent reeling, his head snapped back in its iron shell by the impact of a shaft. The visor was punched in, so that he was blinded by it. Baidur could see the man wrestling to pull it free as he lay on the ground.

The Templars turned, wheeling right and left into the body of archers flanking them. The charge split along a line, with each man taking the opposite path to the one in front. It was a parade-ground manoeuvre, one the Mongols had never seen before. Baidur was impressed. It brought the knights into hand-to-hand combat with the men who stung them, their one chance to survive the carnage the charge had become. They had lost speed, but their armour was strong and they were still fresh. They used the great reach of the lance points to smash in the ribs of his warriors, then the huge swords rose and fell like cleavers.

The Mongol riders danced their mounts around them. They were smaller and less powerful, but so much faster than the armoured men that they could pick each shot with care. From close enough to hear the knights panting beneath their iron plate, they could send their ponies skipping aside, bend the bow and send a shaft wherever they saw a gap or flesh. The longswords swung over them, or where they had been moments before.

Baidur could hear the guttural laughter of his men and he knew it was partly in relief. The sheer size of the knights and their horses was frightening. It was like a cool breeze on the skin to see them flail. When the knights struck cleanly, each blow was terrible, the wounds mortal. Baidur saw one knight with a ragged tabard of red and white bring his sword down
with such force that it cut a warrior’s thigh through and gashed the saddle beneath. Even as the warrior died, he grabbed the knight and pulled him down with him in a crash of metal.

The smooth volleys from the flanks had become a melee of yelling men and horses, a thousand individual struggles. Baidur trotted his pony up and down, trying to see how his men were doing. He saw one knight stagger to his feet and pull off a battered helmet, revealing long dark hair, sweat-plastered to his head. Baidur kicked forward and cut down as he rode past, feeling the shock of impact right up his arm.

He held back, reining in his horse tightly as he tried to keep a sense of the battle. He could not join the attack, he knew that. If he fell, the command would drop to Ilugei’s shoulders. Baidur stood in his stirrups and surveyed a scene he knew he would never forget. All across a vast field, knights in silver armour fought and struggled against the tumans. Their shields were battered and broken, their swords lay where they fell. Thousands were killed on the ground, held down by warriors while others heaved at a helmet, then jabbed a sword into the gap. Thousands more still stood, unhorsed, bellowing to their companions. There was little fear in them, Baidur saw, but they were wrong. It was a time to be afraid. He was not surprised to see the tail of the charge begin to wheel, turning in a chaotic mass so that they could run back to the foot soldiers around Krakow. He gave new orders and eight minghaans moved to follow them, loosing arrows as the knights pushed their tired horses into a canter. There would not be many left by the time they reached a safe haven behind the pikes.

Boleslav watched in despair as the cream of the nobility were torn apart almost in front of him. He would never have believed the knights could fail against horsemen if he had not seen it with his own eyes. Those arrows! The force and accuracy was
staggering. He had never seen anything like it on the battlefield. No one in Poland ever had.

His hopes were raised when he saw the rear turn back to the city. He had not been able to observe the extent of the destruction and his mouth slowly fell open as he realised how few they were, how ragged and battered in comparison to the shining glory of those who had ridden out. The Mongols came with them even then, loosing their infernal shafts with smooth pulls, as if the knights were merely targets to be picked off.

Boleslav sent out a regiment of four thousand pikemen to protect their retreat, forcing the Mongols to stop in their tracks. The shattered remnant of the Knights Templar came trotting in, almost every man dusty and bleeding, wheezing as chest plates pressed too close on their ribs. Boleslav turned in horror as the Mongol tumans came closer. They would use lances at last, he realised. He had lost his cavalry shield and they would ride through to Krakow. He shouted for the pikes to be raised, but there was no charge. Instead, the arrows began again, as if the knights had never ridden out, as if the Mongols had all day to finish the killing.

Boleslav looked at the sun dipping down on the distant hills. An arrow struck his charger without warning, making it buck. Another hammered his shield, pushing it back into his chest with the impact. He felt a sick fear overwhelm him. He could not save Krakow. The knights had been reduced to a shadow and only his peasant foot soldiers remained. He would be hard-pressed to save his own life. He signalled and his heralds blew retreat across the battlefield.

The light was already failing, but the Mongols continued their shooting as the pikemen began to withdraw. The exhausted Templars formed a thin line in the rear, taking arrows on their armour as best they could to prevent the withdrawal becoming a complete rout.

Boleslav moved into a canter. His messengers went with him,
their heads down. Defeat hung on them all, as well as fear. Instead of sending letters of victory, he would be running to his brother Henry, asking for his charity and his pity. He rode numbly, watching the shadows before him. The Mongols had annihilated the French Templars, to that point the greatest fighting force he had ever known. Who could stop them, if not the martial orders? Those knights had slaughtered hordes of Moslem heretics in and around Jerusalem. To see them torn apart in a single day shook his very foundations.

Behind him, the Mongols howled like wolves, hundreds at a time darting in and killing those who wanted nothing more than to retreat. The arrows continued to fall even after the light was poor. Men were dragged off their saddles from behind, tumbling into the arms of men who laughed as they killed them, pushing and shoving each other to get in a kick or a blow.

As full darkness came, Baidur and Ilugei called back their men at last. The city of Krakow stood naked before them and they walked their horses in as the moon rose.

The moonlight was strong, the air clear and cold as the yam rider galloped at full speed along the dusty track. He was weary. It was hard to keep his eyes open and the ache in his lower back had become a jarring pain. A sudden panic gripped him as he lost count of the way stations he had passed that day. Had it been two or three? Karakorum was far behind, but he knew he would have to hand on the bag with its precious contents. He did not know what he had been given, except that it was worth his life. The man from Karakorum had appeared out of the darkness and thrust it into his hands, snapping hoarse orders. He had been galloping even before the man dismounted.

With a jolt, the scout realised he had almost slipped out of
the saddle. The warmth of the horse, the rhythm of hooves, the bells that jingled under him, all of them lulled his senses. It would be his second night without sleep with nothing but the track and the horse for company. He counted again in his head. He had passed six of the yam way stations, changing horses at each one. He would have to hand over the bag at the next one, or risk falling on the road.

In the distance, he saw lights. They would have heard his bells, of course. They would be waiting with a horse and spare rider as well as a skin of airag and sweet honey to keep him going. They would need the other rider. He could feel exhaustion washing over him. He was done.

He slowed to a trot as he reached the stone yard in the middle of nowhere, the visible sign of the khan’s influence and power. As the yam staff clustered around him, he swung his leg over and nodded to the spare rider, little more than a boy. There had been a verbal message as well as the bag. What was it? Yes, he remembered.

‘Kill horses and men if you have to,’ he said. ‘Ride as fast and far as you can. This is for the hands of Guyuk alone. Repeat my words.’

He listened as the fresh rider said them all again in a rush, overcome with excitement. The bag was passed from hand to hand, a sacred trust, never to be opened until it reach its destination. He saw a stone seat in the yard, some sort of mounting block perhaps. He sank onto it gratefully, watching the lad begin his run before he allowed himself to close his eyes. He had never run so fast or far in his life and he wondered what could possibly be so important.

The funeral pyre of the khan was an immense structure, half as high as the palace tower in the city behind it. It had been constructed quickly, using vast stocks of cedar wood from the cellars of the palace. They had been found there when Ogedai’s instructions were read. The khan had prepared for death and every detail of the ceremony had been set out long in advance. There had been other letters in the sealed package Yao Shu had presented to Torogene. The personal one to her had left her weeping. It had been written before Ogedai went on the Chin campaign and it broke her heart to read the brash enthusiasm of her husband’s words. He had prepared for death, but no man can truly understand what it means to have the world go on without him, how it is for those who must live without his voice, his smell, his touch. All that was left were the letters and her memories. Karakorum itself would be his tomb, his ashes placed in a vault below the palace, there to rest for eternity. Temuge stood on the green grass in robes of golden silk
inlaid with blue. His back hurt him all the time and he had to strain to look up at the top of the pyre. He did not weep for his brother’s son. Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back and thought deeply about the future as the first flames spread, charring the wood and releasing a cedar sweetness into the air that would carry for many miles with the smoke.

His mind drifted into the past as he stood there, doing his duty and being seen by the thousands watching. His people were not given to huge displays of grief, but there were many red eyes in the crowd of workers that had come out from Karakorum. The city itself lay empty, as if they had never given it life.

A son of Genghis lay in those flames, a son of the brother he had loved and feared, hated and adored. Temuge could barely remember the first days of being hunted, when they were all just children. It was so very long ago, though there were times when he still dreamed of the cold and the aching hunger. An old man’s thoughts often wandered back to his youth, but there was little comfort in it. His four brothers had been there then. Temujin, who would choose the vainglorious name of Genghis; Kachiun, Khasar and Bekter. Temuge struggled to remember Bekter’s face and could not bring it to mind. His sister Temulun had been there as well, another one torn from life.

Temuge thought of the yam letter Yao Shu had shown him just that morning. His brother Kachiun was dead and he looked inside for a sense of grief, of loss, such as Torogene displayed in her weeping. No, there was nothing. They had grown apart many years before, lost in the difficulties and irritations of life that soured clean relationships. Of the seven who had hidden in a cleft in the ground, only he and Khasar remained as witnesses. Only they could say they had been there from the very beginning. They were both old men and he felt the aches in his bones every day.

He looked past the growing brightness of the wooden tower and saw Khasar standing with his head bowed. They had crossed the Chin nation together when they were young, finding Yao Shu when he was just a wandering monk, waiting for his future to come upon him. It was hard to remember ever being that strong and vital. Khasar looked oddly thin, Temuge noticed. His head seemed overlarge as the flesh had sunk away in his face and neck. He did not look well at all. On an impulse, Temuge walked over to him and they nodded to each other, two old men in the sunshine.

‘I never thought he’d go before me,’ Khasar murmured.

Temuge looked sharply at him and Khasar caught the glance. He shrugged.

‘I’m an old man and the lumps on my shoulder are getting bigger. I didn’t expect to see the boy die before it was my time, that’s all.’

‘You should get them cut out, brother,’ Temuge said.

Khasar winced. He could no longer wear armour that pressed against the painful spots. Each night it seemed the growths had swelled, like grapes under the skin. He did not mention the ones he had found in his armpits. Just to touch them was painful enough to make him dizzy. The thought of enduring a knife sawing at them was more than he could bear. It was not cowardice, he told himself firmly. The things would go away in time, or kill him; one or the other.

‘I was sorry to hear about Kachiun,’ Temuge said.

Khasar closed his eyes, stiff with pain.

‘He was too old to be on campaign; I told him that,’ he replied. ‘No pleasure in being right, though. God, I miss him.’

Temuge looked quizzically at his brother. ‘You’re not becoming one of the Christians now, are you?’

Khasar smiled, a little sadly. ‘It’s too late for me. I just listen to them talk sometimes. They curse a lot, I’ve noticed. That heaven of theirs sounds a bit dull, from what I’ve heard. I asked
one of the monks if there would be horses and he said we wouldn’t
want
them; can you believe that? I’m not riding one of their angels, I tell you that now.’

Temuge could see his brother was talking to cover the grief he felt over Kachiun. Once more he looked for it in his own heart and found an emptiness. It was troubling.

‘I was just thinking of the cleft in the hills, where we all hid,’ Temuge said.

Khasar smiled and shook his head.

‘Those were hard times,’ he replied. ‘We survived them, though, like everything else.’ He looked at the city behind the furnace that hid the khan’s body. ‘This place would not exist if it hadn’t been for our family.’ He sighed to himself. ‘It’s a strange thing to remember when there was no nation. Perhaps that is enough for one man’s lifetime. We have seen some good years, brother, despite our differences.’

Temuge looked away rather than remember his dabbling in the darker arts. For a few years of his youth he had been the chosen apprentice of one who had brought great pain to his family, one whose name was no longer spoken in the nation. Khasar had been almost an enemy for those years, but it was all far away, half-forgotten.

‘You should write this down,’ Khasar said suddenly. He jerked his head to the funeral pyre. ‘Like you did for Genghis. You should make a record of it.’

‘I will, brother,’ Temuge said. He looked again at Khasar and truly saw the way he had withered. ‘You look ill, Khasar. I would let them cut you.’

‘Yes, but what do
you
know?’ Khasar said, with a sneer.

‘I know they can dose you with the black paste so you don’t feel the pain.’

‘I’m not scared of pain,’ Khasar said irritably. Even so, he looked interested and shifted his shoulders with a wince. ‘Maybe I will. I can hardly use my right arm on some days.’

‘You will need it if Chagatai comes to Karakorum,’ Temuge said.

Khasar nodded and rubbed his shoulder with his left hand.

‘That’s one man I’d like to see with his neck broken,’ he said. ‘I was there when Tolui gave his life, brother. What did we get for it? A few miserable years. If I have to see Chagatai ride through those gates in triumph, I think I’d rather die in my sleep first.’

‘He will be here before Guyuk and Tsubodai, that’s the only thing we know for certain,’ Temuge said sourly. He too had no love for the lout his brother had fathered. There would be no grand libraries under Chagatai’s rule, no streets of scholars and great learning. He was as likely to burn the city as anything, just to make a point. In that regard, Chagatai was his father’s son. Temuge shuddered slightly and told himself it was just the wind. He knew he should be making plans to remove the most valuable scrolls and books before Chagatai arrived, just until he was certain they would be honoured and kept safe. The very thought of a Chagatai khanate made him sweat. The world did not need another Genghis, he thought. It had barely recovered from the ravages of the last one.

Köten of the Cumans crossed the Danube in a small boat, a wherry with a surly soldier on the oars who made it fairly skim across the dark water. He wrapped himself tightly in his cloak against the cold twilight, lost in thought. He could not resist his fate, it seemed. The king had every right to ask for his men. Hungary had given them sanctuary, and for a time Köten thought he had saved them all. Once the mountains were behind them, he had dared to hope that the Mongol tumans would not run so far west. They never had before. Instead, the Golden Horde had come roaring out of the Carpathians and the place of peace and sanctuary was no refuge at all.

Köten seethed to himself as he saw the shore approach, a dark line of sucking mud that he knew would pull at his boots. He stepped out into shallow water, wincing as his feet sank into the stinking clay. The oarsman grunted something unintelligible and examined his coin closely, a deliberate insult. Köten’s hand twitched for his knife, wanting to cut a scar on the man that would remind him of his manners. Reluctantly, he let his hand fall. The man rowed away, staring back at him with a curled lip. At a safe distance, the man shouted something, but Köten ignored him.

It was the same story across the cities of Buda and Pest. His Cuman people had come in good faith, been baptised as their lord ordered and made every attempt to treat the new religion as their own, if only for their survival. They were people who understood that staying alive was worth sacrifice and they had trusted him. None of the Christian priests seemed to think it strange that an entire nation would suddenly feel the urge to welcome Christ into their hearts.

Yet it was not enough for the inhabitants of Bela’s cities. From the first days, there had been tales of thefts and murders by his men, rumours and gossip that they were behind every misfortune. A pig couldn’t take sick without someone claiming that one of the dark-skinned women had cursed it. Köten spat on the pebbled shore as he trudged along it. The previous month, a local Hungarian girl had accused two Cuman boys of raping her. The riot that followed had been put down with ruthless ferocity by King Bela’s soldiers, but the hatred was still there, simmering under the surface. There were few who believed she had been lying. After all, it was just the sort of thing they expected from the filthy nomads in their midst. They were rootless and they could not be trusted, except to steal and kill and foul the clean river.

Köten disliked his hosts almost as much as they apparently hated him and the presence of his people. They could not
take up less room than they did, he thought in irritation, seeing the city of tents and shacks huddled along the river. The king had promised them he would build a new city, or perhaps expand two or three of those already there. He had talked of a ghetto for the Cuman people, where they could live safely among their own. Perhaps Bela would have kept his word if the Mongols had not come, though Köten had begun to doubt it.

Somehow the threat of the Mongols had only increased the tension between the local Magyars and his tribe. His people could not walk down a street without someone spitting at them or jostling the women. Every night, there were dead men left in the gutters, their throats slit. No one was ever punished if they were Cuman bodies, but the local judges and soldiers hanged his men in pairs and more if it was one of their own. It was a poor reward for two hundred thousand new Christians. There were times when Köten wondered at a faith that could preach kindness and yet be so cruel to its own.

As he made his way along the shit-strewn shore, the smell made him gag. The wealthy people of Buda had fine drains for their waste. Even the poor quarters in Pest had half-barrels on the corners that the tanners would collect at night. The Cuman tent-people had nothing but the river. They had tried to keep it clean, but there were just too many of them crowded along too short a stretch. Already, there were diseases ripping through his people, families dying with red marks on their skin he had never seen at home. The whole place felt like an enemy camp, but the king had asked for his army and Köten was honourbound, oath-bound to him. In that one thing, King Bela had judged his man correctly, but as Köten kicked at a stone, he thought there were limits even to his honour. Would he see his people slaughtered for such a poor reward? In all his life, he had never broken his word, not once. At times, when he was starving or sick, it was all he had left to feed his pride.

He made his way into the town of Pest, human excrement and clay making his boots heavy. He had promised his wife he would buy some meat before he came back to her, though he knew the prices would be hiked as soon as they recognised him or heard him speak. He tapped the hilt of his sword as he increased his stride and stood tall. He felt like a dangerous man to insult on that day. No doubt the next day would be different, but for a while he would let in a little of his anger. It kept him warm.

As Köten clambered up a muddy rise that opened onto the line of merchants’ stores that formed a street, he heard something crash to the ground nearby. The wind was in his ears and he turned his head to listen. There was a lamp in the front of the butcher’s shop, he saw, but the wooden shutters were already coming down over the serving hatch. Köten swore to himself and broke into a run.

‘Wait!’ he shouted.

He did not notice the men struggling together until they collapsed almost at his feet. Köten drew his sword in reaction, but they were intent on punching and kicking each other. One of them had a knife, but the other had his hand in a tight grip. Köten knew neither of them. His head came up like a hunting dog as more shouting sounded nearby. The voices were angry and he felt an answering anger. Who knew what had happened in his absence? Another rape, or simply the accusation of one against his brothers? While he hesitated, the butcher finally succeeded in heaving his shutters down, shoving a bar through them from the inner side. Köten hammered on the shutters with his fists, but there was no answer. Furious, he turned the corner.

Köten saw the line of men, no, the crowd of men, stalking down the muddy street in the darkness towards him. He jerked back round the corner in two quick steps, but they had seen him outlined against the setting sun. The howl went up instinctively as they saw a frightened figure run from them.

Köten moved as quickly as he could. He had lived long enough to know he was in real danger. Whatever had brought the men out as a mob could end with his head being crushed or his ribs broken in with their boots. He heard their roar of excitement and he ran, heading back towards the dark river. Their boots sounded on the wooden walkway, thumping ever closer.