‘Then form the circle, and place the cage within it,’ Genghis said.
As Jelme began to send his men for wood and ropes, Jochi beckoned to Chagatai. Still stunned, the younger brother leapt lightly down, rocking the cart and bringing a snarl from the tiger that scraped along the nerves.
‘I will need a good sword if I am to face that animal,’ Jochi said. ‘Yours.’
Chagatai narrowed his eyes, fighting to hide his triumph. Jochi could not survive against a tiger. He knew the Koryons would not hunt one without at least eight men and those well trained. He was staring into the eyes of a dead man and he could not believe his luck. On a sudden impulse, he unstrapped the sword Genghis had given him three years before. He felt the loss as its weight left him, but still his heart was full.
‘I will have it back when that beast has torn your head off,’ he murmured. No one else could hear.
‘Perhaps,’ Jochi said. He could not resist a glance at the animal in the cage. Chagatai saw the look and chuckled aloud.
‘It is only fitting, Jochi. I could never have accepted a rape-born bastard as khan.’ He walked away, leaving Jochi staring at his back in rage.
As the sun set, the circle took shape on the plains grass. Under Jelme’s watchful eye, it was a solid construction of oak and beech brought from Koryo, bound with heavy ropes and buttressed at all points by catapult platforms. Forty paces across, there was no entrance and no escape from the ring. Jochi would have to climb over the barricades and open the cage himself.
As Jelme ordered torches lit all round the circle, the entire nation pressed as close as they could. At first, it looked as if only those who could climb the walls would have a view, but Genghis wanted the people to see, so Jelme had used carts as platforms in an outer ring, raising men on pyramids of pine ladders, nailed roughly together. They swarmed over the towers like ants and more than one drunken fool fell onto the heads of those below, packed so tightly that the ground was hidden from sight.
Genghis and his generals had the best places on the ring and the khan had led them in drinking themselves almost blind as the third day wore on. Arslan had been toasted and honoured, but by then the whole camp knew a khan’s son would fight a foreign beast and they were excited at the closeness of death. Temuge had come with the last of the carts from the camp by the Orkhon river. He took most of the bets from the warriors, though only on the length of the fight to come. No one gambled on Jochi to win against the striped horror that lashed its tail and padded back and forth, staring out at them.
As night fell, the only light on the plains was that circle, a golden eye surrounded by the heaving mass of the Mongol nation. Without being asked, the drummer boys had begun to beat the rhythms of war. Jochi had retired to Jelme’s own ger to rest that afternoon and they waited on him, eyes turning constantly to catch the first glimpse of the khan’s son coming out.
Jelme stood and looked down on the young man seated on a low bed, his father’s sword across his knees. Jochi wore the heavy armour Tsubodai had given him, layered in finger-width scales of iron over thick cloth, from his neck to his knees. The smell of sour sweat was strong in the ger.
‘They’re calling for you,’ Jelme said.
‘I hear,’ Jochi replied, his mouth tightening.
‘I can’t say you don’t have to go. You do.’ Jelme began to reach out with his hand, intending to place it on the younger man’s shoulder. Instead, he let it fall and sighed. ‘I can say that this is a stupid thing to be doing. If I’d known how it would turn out, I’d have turned the cat loose in the Koryon forests.’
‘It’s done,’ Jochi murmured. He looked up at his father’s general with a bitter twist to his mouth. ‘I’ll just have to kill that great cat now, won’t I?’
Jelme smiled tightly. Outside, the noise of the crowd had grown in volume and now he could hear Jochi’s name being chanted. It would be a glorious moment, but Jelme knew the boy could not survive it. As the circle was being constructed and the cage lifted down from the cart, he had studied the animal and seen the smooth power of its muscles. Faster than a man and four times as heavy, it would be impossible to stop. He was silent with foreboding as Jochi came to his feet and flexed his shoulders. The khan’s first son had inherited his father’s blinding speed, but it would not be enough. The general saw sweat dripping down Jochi’s face in a fat bead. Genghis had not allowed him room to interpret his orders, but he still struggled against ingrained obedience. Jelme had brought the tiger to the khan. He could not simply send a boy to his death. When he spoke at last, his voice was barely a murmur.
‘I will be on the walls with a good bow. If you fall, try to hang on and I’ll kill it.’ He saw a flicker of hope in the young man’s eyes at that. Jelme recalled the only hunt he had seen in Koryo, when a tiger had taken a shaft in the heart and still disembowelled an experienced net man.
‘You cannot show fear,’ Jelme said softly. ‘No matter what happens. If you are to die tonight, die well. For your father’s honour.’
In response, Jochi turned a furious gaze on the general.
‘If he depends on me for his honour, he is weaker than I realised,’ Jochi snapped.
‘Nevertheless, all men die,’ Jelme went on, ignoring the outburst. ‘It could be tonight, next year or in forty years, when you are toothless and weak. All you can do is choose how you stand when it comes.’
For an instant, Jochi’s face cracked into a smile.
‘You are not building my confidence, general. I would value those forty years.’
Jelme shrugged, touched at the way Jochi showed courage.
‘Then I should say this: kill it and your brother will kneel to you in front of the tribes. Your name will be known and, when you wear its skin, all men will look on you with awe. Is that better?’
‘Yes, it is,’ Jochi replied. ‘If I am killed, be ready with your bow. I do not want to be eaten.’ With a deep breath, he showed his teeth for an instant, then ducked under the low doorway and out into the night. His people roared to see him, the sound filling the plains and drowning the growls of the waiting tiger.
The crowd parted to let him through and Jochi did not see their staring, cheering faces as he approached the walls of the ring. The light from torches fluttered and spat as he climbed lithely to the top, then leapt to the grass below. The tiger watched him with a terrifying focus and he did not want to open the cage. Jochi looked up at the faces of his people. His mother was the only woman he could see and he could barely meet her eyes in case it unmanned him. As his gaze drifted over her, he saw Borte’s hands twitch on the wood, as if she wanted to reach out to her first-born son.
His father’s face was set and unreadable, but his uncle Kachiun nodded to him as their eyes met. Tsubodai wore the cold face and, in doing so, hid the pain Jochi knew he would be feeling. The general could do nothing to thwart the khan’s will, but Jochi knew he at least would not relish the fight. On instinct, Jochi bowed his head to the general and Tsubodai returned the gesture. The tiger roared and opened his great mouth to gnaw at a bar in frustration, angered by the ring of baying men. The animal was a young male, Jochi saw, unscarred and inexperienced. He felt his hands shake and the familiar dry mouth before battle. His bladder made itself felt and he took a strong grip on the wolf’s-head sword of his father. It was a fine blade and he had wanted
