an effort. Jelme gestured for two warriors to help the khan to his feet, though he batted away their arms.
‘Where are you, general?’ Genghis called, shaking his head.
Jelme stood forward, swallowing nervously as he saw Genghis touch his jaw and come away with a smear of blood.
‘I am here, my lord khan,’ he said, standing painfully straight. He dared not look at the other men lying around and groaning, though he recognised Khasar’s angry voice as he tried to get someone unconscious off him.
Genghis turned to Jelme and his eyes focused at last.
‘You will note, general, that no other man reached your lines before me?’
Jelme blinked. ‘I believe so, my lord khan,’ he said.
Genghis nodded blearily to those behind him, satisfied.
‘The night is barely begun and already I have a sore head.’
Genghis grinned and Jelme saw he had broken a tooth on the right side of his face. He watched as Genghis spat blood onto the grass, glaring at a nearby warrior who shrank back visibly.
‘Light fires, Jelme. Your father is somewhere around, though he was not as quick as me, not even close. If Arslan is still alive, we will toast his life in rice wine and airag and whatever food you have.’
‘You are welcome in my camp, my lord khan,’ Jelme said formally. As he caught the riotous mood of the men who had ridden in, he began to grin. Even his father was chuckling in disbelief as he pulled himself upright and leaned on a stoic young warrior for support.
‘You didn’t stop, then?’ Jelme murmured wryly to his father.
Arslan shrugged and shook his head, his eyes shining at the memory.
‘Who could stop? He pulls us all in.’
Jelme’s ten thousand continued the feast in the wilderness. Even the youngest children were woken and brought to see the great khan as he strode through the camp. Genghis made a point of laying his hand on the heads of young ones, but he was distracted and impatient. He had heard horns sound the recall to the flanking riders and knew Chagatai was coming in. He could not fault Jelme for his preparations, but he wanted to see his son.
Jelme’s servants brought wine and cold food to the newcomers as huge fires of fine Koryon lumber were built and lit, casting pools of gold and darkness. The damp grass was covered in heavy sheets of felt and linen. When he took his place of honour, Genghis sat cross-legged, with Arslan on his right hand. Kachiun, Khasar and Tsubodai joined him in front of the roaring flames, passing a skin of rice wine from one to the other. As the circle filled, Jochi secured a place on Khasar’s right, so that Ogedai was further down the line. The senior men did not seem to notice, though Jochi thought Kachiun saw everything. The shaman, Kokchu, gave thanks to the sky father for the conquests Jelme had made and the riches he had brought back. Jochi watched the shaman spin and shriek, throwing drops of airag to the winds and spirits. Jochi felt one droplet touch his face and trickle down his chin.
As Kokchu sank back to his place, musicians cracked out rhythms across the camp, as if released. The thump of sticks blurred and wailing notes mingled and turned around each other, calling back and forth across the flames. Men and women pounded out songs and poems in the firelight, dancing until sweat spattered off them. Those who had come in with Jelme were pleased to honour the great khan.
The fire’s heat was strong on Jochi’s face, licking out from a heart of orange embers and strange paths to the core. As he sat, Jochi stared at his father’s generals and met Kachiun’s eyes for an instant before sliding away. Even in that brief contact, there had been some communication. Jochi did not look back, knowing that Kachiun would be watching him with sharp interest. The eyes showed the soul and they were always hardest to mask.
When Chagatai rode in, it was to the yelling accompaniment of his jagun of warriors. Jelme was pleased to see Chagatai’s drunken stupor had vanished with a bit of fast riding. Genghis’ second son looked vital and strong as he jumped down over the horse’s shoulder.
Genghis rose to greet him and the warriors shouted in appreciation as the father took his son’s arm and pounded him on the back.
‘You have grown tall, boy,’ Genghis said. His eyes were glassy from drink and his face was mottled and puffy. Chagatai bowed deeply to his father, the model of a perfect son.
Chagatai maintained a cool manner as he gripped hands and clapped shoulders with his father’s men. To Jochi’s slow-burning irritation, his brother walked well, his back straight and white teeth flashing as he laughed and smiled. At fifteen, his skin was barely scarred beyond the wrists and forearms and unmarked by disease. Genghis looked upon him with visible pride. When Jochi saw Chagatai welcomed to a seat close to Genghis, he was glad that the great fire hid his flush of anger. Chagatai had glanced at Jochi for an instant of cold recognition. He had not bothered to find words for his older brother, even after three years. Jochi’s face remained calm, but it was astonishing how anger sprang in him from just that glance. For a few heartbeats, he wanted nothing more than to stride through the drunken fools and strike Chagatai to the ground. He could feel his own strength swell in his shoulders as he imagined the blow. Yet he had learned patience with Tsubodai. As Genghis filled Chagatai’s cup, Jochi sat and dreamed of murder, smiling with all the rest.
CHAPTER FIVE
As dawn came, Tsubodai’s poet was in the middle of telling the tale of the Badger’s Mouth, where Arslan had fought the largest army ever seen by any of the people. With Genghis and the generals watching, the poet was more honest than usual as he told Arslan’s exploits. They had all done well in that mountain pass before Yenking. Each man recalled those bloody days, with pride and awe mingling with the wine in their blood. No one else would ever understand what it had meant to stand together there against the Chin empire — and see it humbled. The Badger’s Mouth had been the womb that shoved them out into a new world: stronger and more dangerous. They had gone east and Yenking had burned.
The rising sun brought sight of thousands of riders streaming across the land from the camp by the Orkhon river, many with women and children on the saddles. Genghis was the khan and could ride where he wished, but they all wanted to hear the stories of Arslan. As the morning sun rose in the sky, poems and tales were declaimed from a hundred throats, over and over until the poets and shamans were hoarse.
Even Genghis had not realised so many would want to hear of the early days, but his people sat rapt for the performances, including those who were drinking heavily and stuffing their faces with greasy mutton and goat meat. He heard again how Arslan had rescued him from a pit and he blinked in painful memory at names he had not recalled for years. Arslan had been the first man to take an oath to him, to promise horses, gers, salt and blood, when Genghis had nothing but his mother and sister, a few wild brothers and starvation as his companions. It had been an immense act of trust and Genghis found himself reminded and moved once more by the changes Arslan had wrought and witnessed. That was the purpose of the truth-telling of a man’s life, that all those who heard would remember what he had meant to them and what he had accomplished as he flung the years.
The recitals broke off for the storytellers to rest their throats in preparation for the evening performances. By then it was clear that the entire Mongol nation would drift into that place.
It
