Empire of Silver

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

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. Koten 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 Koten 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.

Koten 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. Koten'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 Koten 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. Koten 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.

Koten 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 Koten 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 Koten 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 Koten was honourbound, oath-bound to him. In that one thing, King Bela had judged his man correctly, but as Koten 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 Koten 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. Koten 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. Koten 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. Koten 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. Koten hammered on the shutters with his fists, but there was no answer. Furious, he turned the corner.

Koten 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.

Koten 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.

He slipped, his mired boots skidding on the wet ground. His sword vanished from his hand, falling on mud so soft that it made no sound at all. Someone crashed into him as he rose and then they were on him, taking out their rage on the shadowy stranger who had shown his guilt by running. He struggled, but they kicked and stabbed with short knives, pressing him down into the filthy mud until he was almost part of it, his blood mingling with the blackness.

The men stood clear of the lifeless body on the bank of the river. Some of them clapped others on the back, chuckling at the justice they had meted out. They had not known the name of the broken thing that lay there. In the distance, they heard the shouts of the king's officers and almost as one they turned away and began to disappear into the shadows of the merchants' quarter. The nomads would hear and be afraid. It would be a long time before they walked without fear through the cities of their betters. Many of the men were fathers and they went home to their families, taking the back alleys so that they would not come across the king's soldiers. The army that assembled in front of the city of Pest was vast. King Bela had spent days in a sort of frenzy as he came to appreciate what it took to field so many men. A soldier could not carry food for more than a few days at most before it slowed him down and made it harder to fight. The baggage train had taken every cart and workhorse in the country and it spread across almost as much land as the massed ranks before the Danube. King Bela's heart filled in his chest as he surveyed the host. More than a hundred thousand men-at-arms, knights and foot soldiers had responded to the bloody swords that he had sent racing the length and breadth of Hungary. His best estimates were of a Mongol army half the size or less than the one he had been told to expect. The king swallowed yellow bile as it surged into his throat. He may have been facing just half the Golden Horde, but the reports coming to him from the north were of destruction beyond belief. There would be no armies coming to his aid from Boleslav or Henry. From everything he had learned, they were hard-pressed to survive the onslaught of the tumans raiding there. Lublin had certainly fallen and there was a single report that Krakow had followed it into flames, though Bela could not see how such a thing was possible. He could only hope that the reports were exaggerated, composed by frightened men. It was certainly not information to share with his officers and allies.

At that thought, he looked to the Teutonic Knights on his right, two thousand of them in their finest battle array. Their horses showed no sign of the mud churned up by the army. They shone in the weak sunlight and blew mist from their nostrils as they pawed the ground. Bela loved warhorses and he knew the knights had the very best bloodlines in the world for their mounts.

Only the left wing caused him to pause in his proud assessment. The Cumans were good horsemen, but they were still seething about the death of Koten in some grubby river brawl. As if such a thing could be laid at the king's feet. They were an impossible people, Bela acknowledged to himself. When the Mongols had been sent back over the mountains, he would have to give more thought to the practicalities of settling so many Cumans. Perhaps they could be bribed to find a new homeland where they would be more welcome and less of a drain on the royal purse.

King Bela cursed under his breath as he saw the Cuman horsemen move out of place in the line. He sent a runner across the field in front of the city with a terse order to hold position. He scratched his chin as he watched the runner's progress. In the distance, he saw the Cuman riders coalesce around the single man, but they did not stop. Bela let his hand fall in growing amazement. He turned in the saddle gesturing to the closest of his knights.

'Ride to the Cumans and remind them of their oath of obedience to me. My orders are to stay in position until I give the word.'

The knight dipped his lance in answer and cantered with dignity after the first messenger. By that time, the Cumans had ruined the neat symmetry of the lines, their horses spreading over the field in no obvious formation. Bela sighed to himself. The nomads could barely understand discipline. He tried to remember the name of Koten's son, who was meant to have command over them, but it would not come to mind.

They did not halt for the knight's arrival, though by then they were close enough for Bela to see him holding his arms out. He might as well have tried to stop the tide, for they simply flowed around him, trotting with no urgency. Bela cursed aloud as he saw they were making for his own position. No doubt they wanted to renegotiate some part of their oath, or ask for better food and arms. It was typical of the filthy breed to try and squeeze an advantage from him, as if he were a grubby merchant. Trade was all they understood, he thought savagely. They'd sell their own daughters if there was gold in it.

King Bela glared as the Cuman horsemen rolled out, moving slowly across his army. His messengers were still coming in with the latest reports on the Mongols and he deliberately busied himself with them, showing his contempt. By the time one of his knights cleared his throat and Bela looked up, it was to see Koten's son staring at him. The king struggled again for the younger man's name, but it would not come. There had just been too many details in the previous days for him to remember everything.

'What is so important that you risk the entire formation?' Bela snapped, already red in the face from suppressed irritation.

Koten's son bowed his head so briefly it was almost a jerk.

'My father's oath bound us, King Bela. I am not bound by it,' he said.

'What are you talking about?' Bela demanded. 'Whatever your concern is, this is not the place or the time. Return to your position. Come to me this evening, when we have crossed the Danube. I will see you then.'

King Bela deliberately turned back to his messengers and took another sheaf of vellum to read. He jerked his head up in amazement when the young man spoke again, as if he had not just been given his orders.

'This is not our war, King Bela. That has been made clear to us. I wish you good fortune, but my task now is to shepherd my people out of the way of the Golden Horde.'

Bela's colour deepened and the veins stood out on his pale skin.

'You will return to the lines!' he roared.

Koten's son shook his head. 'Goodbye, your majesty,' he said. 'Christ bless all your many works.'

Bela took a deep breath, suddenly aware that the Cuman horsemen were all staring at him. To a man, they had their hands on swords or bows and their faces were very cold. His thoughts whirled, but they were forty thousand. If he ordered the son killed, they could very well attack his royal guards. It would be a disaster and only the Mongols would benefit. His blue eyes grew still.

'With the enemy in sight?' Bela roared. 'I call you oath-breakers! I call you cowards and heretics!' Bela shouted at Koten's son as he trotted away. Christ, why could he not remember the man's name! His words might as well have been empty air. The king could only froth and rage as the Cumans peeled off in a mass of riders after their leader. They took a path that led around the great army of Hungary and back to the encampment of their people.

'We did not need goatherders in the ranks, your majesty,' Josef Landau said, with distaste. His brother knights growled their affirmation on all sides. The Cumans were still streaming across the main lines and King Bela struggled to master his fraying temper. He forced a smile.

'You are correct, Sir Josef,' he replied. 'We are a hundred thousand strong, even without those…goatherders. But when we have triumphed, there will be a reckoning for such a betrayal.'

'I would be pleased to teach the lesson, your majesty,' Josef Landau replied, his expression unpleasant. It was matched or exceeded by Bela's own.

'Very well. Spread the word that I sent the Cumans from the field, Sir Josef. I do not want my men dwelling on their betrayal. Let them know that I chose to fight alongside only those of good Hungarian blood. That will raise their spirits. As for the nomads, you will show them the price of their betrayal. They will understand it in those terms, I am sure.' He took a deep breath to calm his anger.

'Now I am weary of standing here listening to the plaintive voices of cowards. Give the order to march.'