across and took his tuman along the clay banks. The land teemed with animals they could eat, from gazelles and ibex to a brown bear that came bellowing out of a copse and almost reached a raiding group before arrows brought it down. Jebe had the bearskin draped over his horse’s back, thick with rotting fat. He hoped to smoke-cure the skin before it was too far gone. Falcons and eagles soared the winds above their heads and the hills and valleys reminded Jebe of home.
As Genghis had ordered, he left small villages alone, his men riding past in a dark mass as farmers ran or stared in dull fear. Such men reminded Jebe of cattle and he could only shudder at living such a life, trapped in one place for all time. He had destroyed four large towns and more than a dozen road forts, leaving the loot buried in marked spots in the hills. His men were coming to know him as leader and they rode with their heads up, enjoying his style of striking fast and covering huge distances in just a few days. Arslan had been more cautious as a general, but he had taught Jebe well and the younger man drove them hard. He had a name to make among the generals and he allowed no weakness or hesitation in those who followed him.
If a town surrendered quickly, Jebe sent its merchants north and east to where he thought Genghis might have reached with the slower carts. He promised them gold and tempted them with Chin coins as proof of the generosity they would receive. Many of them had been forced to watch their homes burned to the ground and had no love for the young Mongol general, but they accepted the gifts and rode away. They could not rebuild with Genghis coming south and Jebe found them more pragmatic than his own people, more accepting of the fate that can raise one man and break another with no cause or reason. He did not admire the attitude, though it suited his own purposes well enough.
By the end of the new moon, which Jebe had learned was the Arab month of Ramadan, he reached a new range of mountains to the south of the crescent lake. Otrar was to the west and further on lay the golden cities of the shah, with names Jebe could hardly pronounce. He learned of Samarkand and Bukhara and had Arab farmers draw their locations on rough maps that Genghis would value. Jebe did not travel to see those walled places. When he did, it would be with the Mongol host at his back.
As the moon vanished, Jebe rode on one last sweep into the hills of the south, mapping sources of water and keeping his men fit. He was almost ready to return and go to war. Though his tuman had stayed out for more than a moon’s turn, he had no gers with him and made his camp in a sheltered valley, with scouts posted on all the peaks around him. It was one of those who rode back into camp, his pony lathered with sweat.
‘I have seen riders, general, in the distance.’
‘Did they spot you?’ Jebe asked.
The young warrior shook his head proudly.
‘Not in this life, general. It was in the last light before the sun set and I came straight back.’ The man hesitated and Jebe waited for him to speak again.
‘I thought… they could have been Mongols, general, from the way they rode. It was just a glimpse before the light went, but there were six men riding together and they could have been ours.’
Jebe stood up, his meal of rabbit forgotten at his feet.
‘Who else would have come so far south?’ he muttered. With a low whistle, he had his men leaving their rations and mounting all around. It was too dark to ride fast, but he had seen a trail leading through the hills before sunset and Jebe could not resist moving closer in the darkness. By dawn, he would be in position. He passed on his orders to his officers and let them inform the men. In no time at all, they were clicking gently to their mounts, moving into a column.
Without a moon, the night was very dark, but they followed his orders and Jebe grinned to himself. If it was Khasar, or better still, Tsubodai, he would like nothing more than to surprise a Mongol force at dawn. As he walked his mount to the head of the line, he sent scouts out with whispered orders, knowing that the khan’s generals would take pleasure in doing the same to him. Unlike the older men, he had a name to win for himself and he relished the challenge of a new land. Tsubodai’s rise had shown Genghis valued talent over blood, every time.
Jochi woke from sleeping like a dead man in pine woods, halfway up a mountain slope. He lay still in pitch darkness, raising his left hand before his face and blinking wearily. The Arabs judged dawn as the time when a black thread could be distinguished from a white one and it was not yet light enough for that. He yawned and knew he would not sleep again now that his battered body had dragged itself awake. His legs were stiff in the mornings and he began each day by rubbing oil into the raised scars from the hot irons and the tiger’s claws. Slowly, he worked the ridged skin with his thumbs, grunting in relief as the muscles relaxed. It was then that he heard hoof-beats in the darkness and one of his scouts calling.
‘Over here,’ he said. The scout dismounted and came to kneel by him. It was one of the Chin recruits and Jochi handed him the pot of oil to continue as he listened. The scout talked quickly in his own language, but Jochi interrupted only once to ask for the meaning of a word.
‘In three weeks, we’ve seen no sign of an armed force and now they come creeping at us in the dark,’ Jochi said, wincing as the Chin warrior’s thumbs worked a tender spot.
‘We could be miles away by dawn, general,’ the scout murmured.
Jochi shook his head. His men would allow him to run if he had some plan to draw an enemy into an ambush. To simply retreat would undermine him among all the groups of his tuman.
He cursed softly. In the moonless night, he could not know where the enemy were or how many came against him. His best trackers would be useless. His one advantage was that he knew the land. The isolated valley to the south had been his training ground for half a month and he had used it to work his men to a new edge of toughness. Along with his scouts, he knew every back trail and piece of cover from one end to the other.
‘Fetch my minghaan officers to me,’ he said to the scout. The ten senior officers could spread his orders quickly to the individual thousands of his tuman. Genghis had created the system and it worked well. Jochi had only added Tsubodai’s idea of naming each thousand and each jagun of a hundred men. It led to less confusion in battle and he was pleased with them.
The Chin scout handed him the pot of oil and bowed his head before scurrying away. Jochi stood and was pleased to find his legs had stopped aching, at least for a while.
By the time his men were walking their mounts up to the ridge that led down into the valley beyond, two more scouts had come in. The sun was not yet up, but the grey light of the wolf dawn was over the hills, when men felt life stir in their limbs. Jochi saw the scouts were chuckling and gestured for them to come to his side. They too were of Chin stock, but the usually impassive warriors were visibly amused at something.
‘What is it?’ Jochi asked impatiently.
The two men exchanged a glance.
‘Those coming are Mongols, general.’
Jochi blinked in confusion. It was true that he could make out the faces of the scouts in the dim light, but they had ridden through darkness to get back to him.
‘How do you know?’ he demanded.
To his surprise, one of them tapped his nose.
‘The smell, general. The breeze is north to south and there is no mistaking it. Arab warriors do not use rancid mutton fat.’
The scouts clearly expected Jochi to be relieved, but instead he narrowed his eyes,
