Bones Of the Hills

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The nation had gathered around Otrar, holding it in a fist. In normal times, the idea of the khan’s sons running a race would have been an event for the warriors. They would have wagered fortunes on which brother would be first to touch the walls of the city. In the end, when Jochi staggered in, with Chagatai some way behind, their arrival went almost unnoticed. The nation waited for news that the camp was safe and every man there had parents, wives or children. Jochi’s tuman had not met his eyes when he caught sight of the tiger skin draped across his horse. The beast’s dried head had been roughly hacked from it, the sole sign that Genghis had not forgotten his sons fighting in front of the ranks. Jochi had fingered the torn skin in silence for a time, then turned away.

When the first riders came a day later, the tumans reeled at the news, everything they had feared. For a time, they were left with hope that their families might have been spared, but Khasar arrived with the survivors and the dead. Warriors ran to each cart as it came in, searching for their wives and children. Others waited in silent agony as the weary women passed them, desperate for a face they knew. Some were rewarded by a sharp cry and an embrace. Most were left standing, alone.

It took more than a month to collect every fallen warrior on the path back through the hills in the south. The Arabs were left to rot, but those who had fought for Genghis were brought in and treated with honour. Their bodies were stripped of armour and wrapped in soft white felt before being taken on carts to the highest peaks they could see and laid out for the hawks and eagles of that realm. The women who had died were tended by their sisters and mothers, with Chakahai, Borte and Hoelun overseeing the grim work.

Genghis had come to view the dead face of his sister when she was brought in. She had been found naked, with her throat cut in one great slash. His grief had been terrible to see. It was one more crime to bring to the feet of the shah. His mother had aged overnight at the news, so that Hoelun seemed constantly dazed and had to be taken by the arm wherever she went. She had lost a son many years before and ancient wounds bled again, leaving her ruined with tears. When Genghis turned his gaze on Otrar, those who saw knew the city would be reduced to dust in a hot wind.

The catapults had been destroyed on their hill, deliberately set on fire as the Otrar garrison broke out and raced away to their own destruction. Twelve good men had been found around the charred timbers, cut down as they held their posts to the last. Genghis had merely grunted when that news reached him and set his Chin artisans to making more with Koryon lumber.

The end of summer was quiet as they rested and recovered, with simmering rage always close to the surface. The city waited for them and no one came to the high walls any more, still marked with soot from the burning oil Samuka had sent against them.

Ho Sa and Samuka had been found among the heaped dead and been honoured for the enemies they had taken with them. The storytellers wove their tale into ballads for the evenings, while the empty flesh was taken with the rest, with no more ceremony than the lowest warrior of the tribes. In the distance, the peaks were covered with the dead and birds of prey hung like a dark cloud above them, feasting.

Winter in that place was a weak thing compared with the bitter cold they knew in the north. Genghis could not know the mind of the governor of Otrar, but the onset of colder months seemed to bring agitation to the city while the Mongols waited for the catapults to be rebuilt. There was no sense of urgency in the tribes. They did not need to move to live and one place was as good as any other. The city would fall and if the inhabitants suffered as they waited, that too was well deserved.

As the days grew shorter, Genghis could sometimes see distant figures on the walls, pointing and talking. Perhaps they could see the frames growing on the hill outside the city. He did not know, or care. At times he was almost listless, and even after the catapults were finished, he did not give the order, preferring to stay in his ger and drink through a black depression. He did not want to see accusation in the eyes of those who had lost their families. It had been his decision and he tortured himself with grief and fury, sleeping only when the drink made him pass out.

The gates of Otrar opened without warning on a day of grey clouds and threatening rain. The Mongol army sent up a storm of sound, beating spears and bows on shields, showing their anger in the discordant clashing. Before Genghis or his remaining generals could respond, a small group of men came walking out and the gates closed swiftly behind them.

Genghis was talking to Khasar when he heard the howl of the warriors. He walked slowly to his horse and climbed stiffly into the saddle, staring at Otrar.

Just twelve men had left the protection of the walls. As Genghis watched, he saw his warriors riding hard at them, their swords bared. He might have stopped them, but he kept his mouth firmly shut.

The twelve Arabs bore one of their number trussed between them, his feet dragging on the dusty ground. They cowered back from the warriors swirling around them and held up their free hands to show they were unarmed. To the Mongols, that too was a provocation. Any man fool enough to venture among them without a blade or bow just excited their lust to kill.

Genghis watched impassively as the warriors galloped across the face of the men’s progress. Closer and closer they rode until one of them clipped an Arab with his horse’s shoulder, sending him spinning.

The small group paused in sudden terror and Genghis could see them calling to their fallen companion as he tried to struggle up. More warriors forced them on, yipping and urging as they might a lost sheep or goat. The man was left behind and warriors dismounted to finish him.

The sound of his screams echoed from the walls of Otrar. The group of Arabs moved on, glancing back in horror. Another was knocked down with a blow from a sword hilt, so that a flap of his scalp was torn and blood covered his face. He too was left behind in a welter of kicking, stabbing men. Genghis sat his horse in silence as he observed their progress.

Two Mongol women approached one of the Arabs and pulled him away from the others. He yelled something in his strange language and held both hands out and open, but they laughed at him and held him back from his companions. When they had passed, the man began to scream and this time he did not die quickly. The sounds grew in intensity, going on and on.

When there were just six left of the group, Genghis held up his hand, sitting straight-backed in the morning sun. Those who had watched for his signal pulled away from the bloodied Arabs and allowed a path to the khan. The group staggered on, pale with what they had seen. When they reached Genghis, they fell to the ground, abasing themselves before him. Their prisoner writhed in the dust, the whites of his eyes showing.

Genghis watched coldly as one of the Arabs lifted his head and spoke in the Chin language, his words slow.

‘My lord, we have come to discuss peace!’ he said.

Genghis did not reply and only looked back at Otrar, where the walls were once again black with small figures, watching. The man swallowed the dust in his throat and tried again.

‘The city council has voted to hand over our governor to you, lord. We were led into war against our will and we are innocent. We beg you to spare us and take only Governor Inalchuk, who is the author of our troubles.’

The man settled back to the dust now that the words were spoken. He could not understand why he and his companions had been attacked. He was not even sure if the khan had understood his words. Genghis gave no sign of it and the silence lengthened.

The governor had been gagged as well as tied. Genghis heard the moan of muffled words and gestured to Khasar to cut the gag. His brother was not gentle and the blade sliced across Inalchuk’s lips as the cloth parted, making him cry out and spit blood.

‘These men have no power over me!’ Inalchuk said through his pain. ‘Let me negotiate for my life, lord khan.’

Genghis had learned only a few words of Arabic and could not understand. He waited patiently while an Arab merchant was brought, one of those who spoke many tongues. The merchant arrived looking as nervous as the others lying in the dust. Genghis gestured for the governor to speak again and listened patiently to the translation into the Chin language. It occurred to him that he had better set Temuge to training more men in the task if he intended to stay long in Arab lands. It was hard to make himself care.

When he understood Inalchuk, Genghis chuckled cruelly, waving away a fly that buzzed around his face.

‘They have tied you like a sheep for slaughter and delivered you to your enemy, yet you say they have no power over you?’ he said. ‘What other power is there?’

As the interpreter stumbled through the reply, Inalchuk struggled into a sitting position and touched his bound hands to his bleeding face, wincing.

‘There is no council in Otrar, lord. These are mere traders of my city. They do not speak for one appointed by the shah himself.’

One of the Arabs began to spit an answer, but Khasar lunged at him, kicking him onto his back.

‘Be silent!’ Khasar snapped. He drew his sword and the battered Arabs followed the movement with nervous eyes. No interpretation was needed and the man did not try to speak again.

‘Spare my life and I will have six thousand oka of silver delivered to you,’ Inalchuk declared.

The interpreter hesitated over the sum and Genghis looked over to him. Under that yellow gaze, the shaking Arab merchant lowered himself to the ground with the others.

‘Lord, I do not know the word in the Chin tongue. It is a term of weight used by gold and silversmiths.’

‘No doubt he offers a great deal,’ Genghis replied. ‘He has set the value of his own life after all.’

The interpreter nodded where he lay.

‘The weight in silver of many men, lord. Perhaps a hundred, or even more.’

Genghis considered, glancing up at the walls of Otrar that still loomed over his army. After a time, he cut the air with his hand.

‘These others will be given to the women, to use as they see fit. The governor will live for now,’ he said. He caught Khasar’s surprise out of the corner of his eye, but did not respond to it.

‘Fetch Temuge to me,’ Genghis went on. ‘They are watching us on the walls of Otrar. I will give them something to see.’

His brother Temuge came quickly at the summons, barely glancing at the bloody dust, or the governor who still sat with his eyes darting from man to man.

‘How much silver do we have in the camp, Temuge?’ Genghis asked.

‘Perhaps a hundred carts of it, my lord khan,’ Temuge replied. ‘I have accounted for every coin, but I would have to bring my records if…’

‘Bring me the weight of a man in that metal,’ Genghis said. He sensed Inalchuk staring at him and smiled slowly. ‘And one of the moving forges Tsubodai brought back. I want the silver to run like water before sunset. Do you understand?’

‘Of course, lord khan,’ Temuge replied, though he did not understand at all. He hurried away to do his brother’s bidding.

The population of Otrar crowded onto the walls of the city to see what would become of the governor they had sent out to the Mongol army. They had suffered through the battle between the garrison and Samuka’s men. When the garrison had broken out at last, their mood had been jubilant. The shah was coming to relieve the city and they would be saved. Instead, the Mongol army had come back unchallenged from the south to surround them. They did not know if the shah still lived, but how could the khan sit outside their walls if he did? It had taken months for the merchants to form a council and days of secret talks before they had surprised Inalchuk in his bed and trussed him to be handed over. The Mongols had no grudge against the citizens of Otrar, only the man who had provoked them. Families stood together on the walls and prayed that they would be saved.

Before the sun set, Genghis had Inalchuk brought to within arrow shot of the walls. It was a dangerous thing to do, but he guessed rightly that the people within would not dare risk a shot at the one man who could choose to spare them. Just a hundred yards from the iron gates, he had Inalchuk kneel with his hands freshly tied in front.

The sight of the smoking forge had not been lost on the governor of Otrar. It too had been wheeled close to the walls of his city and he could smell the tang of hot metal on the breeze. He doubled his offer and then doubled it again, until Genghis told the interpreter to hold his tongue or lose it.

They made a strange group, standing alone before the city. Three burly men worked the forge bellows under Temuge’s direction. Genghis stood by the prisoner with Khasar, but the rest of the Mongol army stood back in silent ranks, watching.

At last, the forge workers nodded that the silver coins were molten, held in a cauldron of black iron. One of them dipped a stick into the liquid within. It charred on contact, while drops of silver hissed and spat. Two of the men ran long wooden poles through the cauldron handles and lifted it clear of the iron box and the white heat of charcoal and bellows.

Inalchuk moaned in terror as he saw them bring it out, heating the air to a haze above the simmering contents.

‘One hundred thousand oka of silver, lord,’ he said, sweating. The interpreter glanced up, but did not speak and Inalchuk began to pray aloud.

As the carriers came forward, Genghis stared into the bowl of liquid silver and nodded to himself.

‘Say these words to him in his own tongue,’ he said to the interpreter. ‘“I have no use for silver or gold.”’

Inalchuk looked up in desperate hope as the interpreter spoke.

‘What is he doing, my friend? In the name of Allah, tell me if I am to die!’

The interpreter held his breath for a moment, staring in sick fascination at the silver as it slopped against the sides of the iron and coated them.

‘I think that you are,’ he admitted. ‘It will at least be quick, so prepare your soul for God.’

Oblivious to the exchange, Genghis went on.

‘Accept this gift from me, Governor of Otrar,’ he said. ‘You may keep what you can hold.’

Genghis turned to Khasar, his face cold.

‘Have him hold out his hands, but be careful you are not burned.’

Khasar knocked Inalchuk down with a blow to his head that left him dazed. He mimed holding out his hands and the governor began to yell, refusing. Even a sword held to his throat would not make him raise his hands. In growing anger, Khasar took him by the elbow and shoulder and snapped a bone with his knee, as if breaking a stick. Inalchuk screamed, still struggling. Genghis nodded and Khasar walked round to break the other arm.

‘Do as they want, brother!’ the interpreter snapped. ‘You may live!’ Inalchuk heard through his madness and sobbing, held out the bound hands, one supporting the other as it hung limp. Genghis nodded to the forge men and they tipped the cauldron, slopping silver towards the edge.

A flood of bubbling metal covered the governor’s hands, so that for a moment it looked as if he held shining rain. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. His fingers were welded together in the heat, the flesh dissolving.

He fell backwards, jerking away and landing on his face, drool spilling from his mouth as his lips made a paste of dust. His eyes were blank as Genghis came to stand over him, looking with interest at hands that seemed twice their usual size.

‘You brought me to this dry land,’ Genghis told the shuddering figure. ‘I offered you peace and trade and you sent me the heads of my men. Now I have given you your precious silver to hold.’

Inalchuk said nothing, though his lips worked soundlessly.

‘Do you have no words to thank me?’ Genghis went on. ‘Is your throat too dry? Accept this drink from me to slake your thirst. Then you will know a small echo of the pain you have caused.’

The interpreter was silent in horror, but Inalchuk was past hearing. The khan did not bother to watch as the forge men brought up their pot and poured the rest of the metal over the governor’s face. His oiled beard ignited and the open mouth filled, but Genghis only stared at the people on the walls. Many of them turned away, understanding at last that death would come for them.

‘The catapults are finished, Khasar,’ Genghis said, still staring up at the city. ‘You will begin breaking the walls tomorrow at dawn. I want each stone removed from every other. Otrar will not be rebuilt when we have gone. This city will be swept from the face of the world, with every living thing in it.’

Khasar shared the depths of his brother’s hatred. He bowed his head.

‘Your will, my lord khan.’

The Old Man listened at a tiny grille set high in the wall of the cell. He could see only bare outlines in the gloom, but he heard the sounds of a young body stirring as it rose from drugged sleep. He was patient as he waited. How many times had he guided a boy through the ritual of awakening? He had shown the garden to his new recruit, with its glory enhanced by the drug in wine sweetened almost to syrup. He had shown him paradise and now, in the darkness, he would see hell.

The Old Man smiled to himself as he heard a voice cry out below in horror. He could imagine the shock and confusion, recalling how he himself had felt so many years before. The smell of dead flesh was strong in that little cell, the bodies greasy with loose flesh as they lay over the young warrior. The Old Man heard him whisper and sob as he struggled with the limp limbs covering him. It would seem as if only moments had passed since he sat in a place so beautiful that it was almost painful. The Old Man had perfected the garden and chosen the women well, down to the last detail. They were exquisite creatures and the drug had inflamed the young man so that every light touch on his skin had driven him almost to madness. Then he had closed his eyes for an instant and woken with the stinking dead.

The Old Man strained his eyes to see into the gloom. He could see flailing movement as the boy cast around him. He would feel soft matter under his hands in the darkness, perhaps feel the movement of maggots in the meat. The boy moaned and the old man heard him vomit. The stench was appalling and the Old Man pressed a pouch of rose petals to his own nose as he waited. The moment was always delicate, but he was a master of his art.

The boy was naked in that place of the slippery dead. The Old Man saw him plucking at shreds of glistening skin where they had clung to his own. His mind would be fragile, his heart racing to the point of death. The Old Man thought only the very young could survive such an experience, but even they were haunted by it ever after.

The boy yelled suddenly, his attention caught by a shifting mass of rotting flesh. The Old Man smiled at his terrified imaginings and readied the shuttered lamp at his feet, where no stray glow could spoil the lesson. Below him, the boy prayed to Allah to deliver him from his stinking pit of hell.

The Old Man threw open the door to the cell, his lamp shattering the gloom, so that the boy was blinded and fell back with hands over his eyes. To the Old Man’s pleasure, he heard the spatter of hot urine as the boy’s bladder gave way. He had judged the moment well. Tears streamed below the clasped hands.

‘I have shown you paradise,’ the Old Man said. ‘And I have shown you hell. Shall I leave you here for a thousand lifetimes, or shall I take you back to the world? Which one awaits you depends on how well you follow me. On your soul, speak truly. Will you dedicate your life to me to spend as I see fit?’

The boy was fifteen years old. As he knelt and wept, the last traces of sticky hashish faded from his young body, leaving him shaking and weak.

‘Please! Anything you ask! I am yours,’ he said, sobbing. Still he did not dare open his eyes, in case he found the vision gone and was left alone once more.

The Old Man pressed a cup to his lips and let him smell the resin that was said to give courage. The boy gulped at it, the purple wine running down his bare chest and arms. The Old Man grunted in satisfaction as the boy slumped back, his senses spinning away.

When the boy awoke, he lay on clean sheets in a bare stone room, somewhere in the fastness that was the Old Man’s sanctuary from the world. Alone, he wept at what he had seen, unaware that he was still observed. As he swung his legs over and tried to rise, he was filled with determination never to see the demons of the dead room again. He shuddered to remember the way the bodies had moved and stared at him, each memory more vivid and terrifying than the last. He thought he would have gone insane if the garden had not remained also in his mind. Its peace had protected him, even in hell.

The wooden door to the room opened and the boy took a deep breath as he stood before the man of power who had brought him out of that place. The Old Man was short and burly, his eyes fierce in a face as dark as mahogany. His beard was oiled and perfect, but his clothes were simple as always, suited to one who refused all the tawdry trappings of wealth. The boy threw himself full length on the cool stone, prostrating himself for his deliverance.

‘You understand at last,’ the Old Man said softly. ‘I have taken you by the hand and shown you both glory and failure. Which will you choose when the time comes?’

‘I will choose glory, master,’ he said, shaking.

‘Your life is just a bird’s flight through a lit room. You pass from infinite darkness into endless night, with only a short time in between. The room does not matter. Your life does not matter, only how you prepare for the next.’

‘I understand,’ the boy said. He could feel the oily touch of dead limbs on his skin even then and he shuddered.

‘Pity those who do not know what comes after death. You can stand strong among them, for you have seen both heaven and hell and you will not falter.’ The leader of the Assassins raised the boy to his feet with a gentle hand.

‘Now you may join your brothers. Men like you, who have been allowed to press their eye to a crack in the walls of reality. You will not fail them, or me, when you bring a perfect death to the feet of Allah.’

‘I will not, master,’ the boy replied, more certain than he had ever been in his young life. ‘Tell me whom I must kill. I will not fail.’

The Old Man smiled, always touched by the earnest faith of the young warriors he sent out into the world. He had been one of them once, and when the nights were dark and cold, he still sometimes ached for the garden he had been shown. When death took him at last, he could only hope the real thing was as wonderful as the one he had created. Let there be hashish resin in paradise, he thought. Let him be as young and lithe as the boy before him.

‘You will travel with your brothers to the camp of the Mongol khan, he who calls himself Genghis.’

‘Amongst the infidel, master?’ the boy stammered, already feeling unclean.

‘Even so. Your faith will keep you strong. For this and only this you have trained with us for five years. You have been chosen for your skill with languages. You may serve Allah well with his gift.’ The Old Man rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder, his palm seeming to radiate heat. ‘Get close to the khan and, when the moment is right, tear his life from him with a single thrust to the heart. Do you understand the price of failure?’

The boy swallowed painfully, the pit fresh in his mind.

‘I will not fail, master. I swear it.’