Conqueror

CHAPTER TEN

It took a month to bring the army home to Karakorum, almost half the time it had taken to ride out. Freed of Guyuk’s command, Mongke had the men up before dawn each morning, moving on at a hard pace and begrudging every stop to snatch food or sleep.

When they sighted the pale city walls, the mood amongst the men was hard to define. They carried the body of the khan and there were many who felt the shame of failing in their duties to Guyuk. Yet Mongke rode tall, already certain in his authority. Guyuk had not been a popular khan. Many of the warriors took their manner from Mongke and did not hang their heads.

The news had gone before them, by way of the yam riders. As a result, Sorhatani had been given time to prepare the city for days of mourning. Braziers filled with chips of cedar and black aloes wood had been set alight that dawn, with the approach of the army. A grey smoke rose into the air across Karakorum, wreathing the city in mist and rich scents. For once, the stink of blocked sewers was masked.

With Day Guards in their best armour, Sorhatani waited by the city gate, looking out over the road to her son’s army coming home. Kublai had barely made it back before his brother and then only by resuming his guise as a yam rider. Sorhatani felt her age as she stood in the breeze, staring at the dust raised by tens of thousands of horses and men. One of the Guards cleared his throat and then began a spasm of coughing that he could not control. Sorhatani glanced at him, her eyes warning him to be silent. Mongke was still some way off and she took a step towards the warrior, placing her hand on his forehead. It was burning and she frowned. The red-faced warrior was unable to reply to her questions. As she spoke, he raised a hand helplessly and in irritation she waved him out of line.

Sorhatani felt an itch begin in her own throat and swallowed hard to control it before she embarrassed herself. Two of her servants were in bed with the same fever, but she could not think of that now, with Mongke coming home.

Her thoughts strayed to her husband, dead so many years before. He had given his life for Ogedai Khan and he would never have dared to dream that one of his own sons would rise. Yet who else could be khan now that Guyuk was dead? Batu owed everything to her, not just his life. Kublai was certain he would not be an obstacle to her family. She sent a silent prayer to her husband’s spirit, thanking him for the original sacrifice that had made it all possible.

The army came to a halt and settled in around the city, unburdening the horses and letting them run free to crop grass that had grown lush in their absence. It would not be long before the plains of Karakorum were bare dirt again, Sorhatani thought. She watched as Mongke came riding in with his minghaan officers, wondering if she could ever tell him the part she had played in Guyuk’s death. It had not worked out as she and Kublai had planned. All she had intended was for Batu to be saved. Yet she could feel no regret for the loss of the khan. She had already seen some of his favourites reduced to trembling horror as they heard their protector had gone. It had been hard for her not to enjoy their distress, having so long endured their petty dominance. She had dismissed the guards Guyuk had set to watch her. She had no real authority to do so, but they had been able to feel the wind changing as well. They had left her apartments at undignified speed.

Mongke rode up and dismounted, embracing her with awkward formality. She noted he wore the wolf’s-head sword on his left hip, a potent symbol. She gave no sign she had seen it. Mongke was not yet khan and he had to tread a difficult path in the days ahead, until Guyuk was buried or burnt.

‘I wish I could have come back with better news, mother.’ The words still had to be said. ‘The khan has been killed by his servant, murdered while he was out hunting.’

‘It is a dark day for the nation,’ Sorhatani replied formally, bowing her head. Her chest tightened as a cough threatened and she swallowed spit in quick gulps. ‘There will have to be another quiriltai, another gathering of the princes. I will send out the yam riders to have them come to the city next spring. The nation must have a khan, my son.’

Mongke looked sharply at her. Perhaps only he could have heard the subtle emphasis of the last words, but her eyes gleamed. He nodded just a fraction in answer. Among the generals, it was already accepted that Mongke would be khan. He had only to declare himself. He took a deep breath, looking around him at the honour guard Sorhatani had assembled. When he spoke, it was with quiet certainty.

‘Not to the city, mother, not to this place of cold stone. I am the khan elect, grandson to Genghis Khan. The decision is mine. I will summon the nation to the plain of Avraga, where Genghis first gathered the nation.’

Unbidden, tears of pride came to Sorhatani’s eyes. She bowed her head, mute.

‘The nation has drifted far from the principles of my grandfather,’ Mongke said, raising his voice to carry to his officers and the Guards. ‘I will drag it back to the right path.’

He looked through the open gate to the city beyond, where tens of thousands worked to administer the empire, from the lowliest taxes to the incomes and palaces of kings. His face showed his disdain, and for the first time since she had heard of Guyuk’s death, Sorhatani felt a whisper of concern. She had thought Mongke would need her guidance as he took control of the city. Instead, he seemed to look through Karakorum to some inner vision, as if he did not see it at all.

When he spoke again, it was to confirm her fears.

‘You should retire to your rooms, mother. At least for a few days. I have brought a burning branch back to Karakorum. I will see this filthy city made clean before I am khan.’

Sorhatani fell back a step as he remounted and rode through the gate towards the palace. His men were all armed and she saw their grim faces in a new light as they followed their lord into Karakorum. She began to cough in the dust of their passing, until there were fresh tears in her eyes.

By the afternoon, the scented braziers had burnt low and the city was beginning the formal period of mourning for Guyuk Khan. His body lay in the cool basement of the palace, ready to be cleaned and dressed for his cremation pyre.

Mongke strode into the audience room through polished copper doors. The senior staff in Karakorum had gathered at his order and they knelt as he entered, touching their heads to the wooden floor. Guyuk had been comfortable with such things, but it was a mistake.

‘Get up,’ Mongke snapped as he passed them. ‘Bow if you must, but I will not suffer this Chin grovelling in my presence.’

He seated himself on Guyuk’s ornate throne with an expression of disgust. They rose hesitantly and Mongke frowned as he looked closely at them. There was not a true Mongol in the room, the legacy of Guyuk’s few years as khan as well as his father before him. What good had it done to conquer a nation if the khanate was taken over from within? Blood came first, though that simple truth had been lost to men like Guyuk and Ogedai. The men in the room ran the empire, set taxes and made themselves rich, while their conquerors still lived in simple poverty. Mongke showed his teeth at the thought, frightening them all further. His gaze fell on Yao Shu, the khan’s chancellor. Mongke studied him for a time, remembering old lessons with the Chin monk. From Yao Shu he had learned Buddhism, Arabic and Mandarin. Though Mongke disdained much of what he had been taught, he still admired the old man and Yao Shu probably was indispensable. Mongke rose from the throne and walked along their lines, marking senior men with a brief hand on their shoulders.

‘Stand by the throne,’ he told them, moving on as they scurried to obey. In the end, he chose six, then stopped at Yao Shu. The chancellor still stood straight, though he was by far the oldest man in the room. He had known Genghis in his youth and Mongke could honour him for that at least.

‘You may have these as your staff, chancellor. The rest will come from the nation, from those of Mongol blood only. Train them to take over from you. I will not have my city run by foreigners.’

Yao Shu looked ashen, but he could only bow in response.

Mongke smiled. He was wearing full armour, a signal to them that the days of silk were at an end. The nation had been raised in war, then run by Chin courtiers. It would not do. Mongke walked to one of his guards and murmured an order into his ear. The man departed at a run and the scribes and courtiers waited nervously as Mongke stood before them, still smiling slightly as he gazed out of the open window to the city beyond.

When the warrior returned, he carried a slender staff with a strip of leather at the end. Mongke took it and rolled his shoulders.

‘You have grown fat on a city that does not need you,’ he told the men, swishing the air with the whip. ‘No longer. Get out of my house.’

For an instant, the assembled men stood in shock at his words. It was all the hesitation he needed.

‘And you have grown slow under Guyuk and Ogedai. When a man, any man, of the nation gives you an order, you move!’

He brought the whip across the face of the nearest scribe, making sure that he struck with the wooden pole. The man fell backwards with a yelp and Mongke began laying about him in great sweeps. Cries of panic went up as they struggled to get away from him. Mongke grinned as he struck and struck again, sometimes drawing blood. They streamed out of the room and he pursued them in a frenzy, whipping their legs and faces, whatever he could reach.

He drove them down the cloisters and out into the marshalling yard of the palace, where the silver tree stood shining in the sun. Some of them fell and Mongke laughingly kicked them to their feet so that they stumbled on with aching ribs. He was a warrior among sheep and he used the whip to snap them back into a group as he might have herded lambs. They stumbled ahead until the city gate loomed, with Guards looking down in amusement from the towers on either side. Mongke did not pause in his efforts, though he was running with sweat. He kicked and shoved and tore at them until the last man was outside the walls. Only then did he pause, panting, with the shadow of the gate falling across him.

‘You have had enough from the nation,’ he called to them. ‘It is time to work for your food like honest men, or starve. Enter my city again and I will take your heads.’

A great wail of distress and anger went up from the group and for a moment Mongke even thought they might rush him. Many had wives and children still in the city, but he cared nothing for that. The lust to punish was strong in him and he almost wished they would dare to attack, so he could draw his sword. He did not fear scholars and scribes. They were Chin men and, for all their fury and cleverness, they could do nothing.

When the group had subsided into impotent muttering, Mongke looked up at the Guards above his head.

‘Close the gate,’ he ordered. ‘Note their faces. If you see a single one again inside the walls, you have my permission to put an arrow in them.’

He laughed then at the spite and horror he saw in the crowd of battered and bruised courtiers. Not one had the courage to challenge his orders. He waited as the gates were pushed closed, the line of sight to the plains shrinking to a crack and then nothing. Outside, they wailed and wept as Mongke nodded to the Day Guards and threw down the bloody whip at last, walking back alone to the palace. As he went, he saw thousands of Chin faces peering out from houses at the man who would be khan in spring. He grimaced, reminded once again that the city had fallen far from its origins. Well, he was no Guyuk to be baulked for years in his ambition. The nation was his.

The smell of aloes wood had faded since the morning. The city reeked again, reminding Mongke of a healing tent after a battle. He thought sourly of festering wounds he had seen, fat and shiny with pus. It took courage and a steady hand to drain such a wound: a gash and a sharp pain to let the healing begin. He smiled as he walked. He would be that hand.

The entire city was in uproar by the time darkness came. On Mongke’s orders, warriors had entered Karakorum in force, groups of ten or twenty walking every street and examining the possessions of thousands of families. At the first hint of resistance, they dragged owners into the street and beat them publicly, leaving them on the cobbles until their relatives dared to come out and take them back. Some lay where they had been thrown all night.

Even sickbeds were searched for hidden gold or silver, with the occupants tossed out with their sheets and made to stand in the cold until the warriors were satisfied. There were many of those, coughing listlessly and still feverish as they stood with blank eyes. Chin families suffered more than other groups, though the Moslem jewellers lost all their stock in a single night, from raw materials to finished items ready for sale. In theory, all things would be accounted, but the reality was that anything of value disappeared into the deels the warriors wore over their armour.

Dawn brought no respite and only revealed the destruction. There was at least one sprawled body in every street and the weeping of women and children could be heard across Karakorum.

The palace was the centre of it, beginning with a search of the sumptuous rooms that had belonged to the khan’s staff and favourites. Wives were either claimed by Mongke’s officers or put outside the walls to join their husbands. The trappings of status were ripped down, from tapestries to Buddhist statuary. There at least, Mongke’s eye could be felt and what treasures they found were dutifully collected and piled in the storerooms below. More were burnt in great fires on the streets.

As evening came on his second day back in the city, Mongke summoned his two most trusted generals to the audience room in the palace. Ilugei and Noyan were Mongols in his mould, strong men who had grown up with a bow in their hands. Neither man affected any sign of Chin culture and already those who had done so were shaving their heads and ridding themselves of the artefacts of that nation. The orlok’s will had been made clear enough when he whipped the Chin scribes from the city.

Simply meeting his officers without Chin scribes to record was a break with Guyuk’s court. Mongke knew Yao Shu was outside, but he would let the old man wait until the real business was concluded. He was not filled with excitement at the need to meet Guyuk’s debts. The sky father alone knew how the khan had managed to borrow so much against a treasury that stood empty. Already there had been nervous delegations of merchants coming to the palace to collect gold for their paper. Mongke grimaced at the thought. With the wealth he had wrenched out of the foreigners in Karakorum, he could meet most of Guyuk’s paper promises, though it would leave him without funds for months. His honour demanded he do so, as well as the practical consideration that he needed the merchants’ goodwill and their trade. It seemed the role of a khan involved more than winning battles.

Mongke was not yet sure if he had acted correctly in removing the palace staff from their soft positions. Part of him suspected Yao Shu brought every small problem to him as a way of criticising what he had done. Even so, the memory of whipping them from the city was immensely satisfying. He had needed to show he was no Guyuk, that the city would be run on Mongol lines.

‘You have sent men to Torogene?’ Mongke asked Noyan.

The general stood proudly before him in a traditional deel, his skin greasy with fresh mutton fat. He wore no armour, though Mongke had allowed him to keep his sword for the meeting. He would not fear his own men, as Guyuk and Ogedai had.

‘I have, my lord. They will report directly to me when it is done.’

‘And Guyuk’s wife, Oghul Khaimish?’ Mongke said, his eyes passing on to Ilugei.

He tightened his mouth before replying. ‘That is not … settled yet, my lord. I had men go to her rooms, but they were barred and I thought you would want it handled quietly. She will have to come out tomorrow.’

Mongke grew very still and Ilugei began to sweat under the yellow gaze. At last the orlok nodded.

‘How you carry out my orders is your concern, Ilugei. Bring me the news when you have it.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ Ilugei said, breathing out in relief. As Mongke looked away, Ilugei spoke again. ‘She is … popular in the city, my lord. The news of her pregnancy is everywhere. There could be unrest.’

Mongke glared at the sweating man.

‘Then take her by night. Make her vanish, Ilugei. You have your orders.’

‘Yes, lord.’ Ilugei chewed his lip as he thought. ‘She is never without her two companions, lord. I have heard rumours that the old one knows herbs and ancient rites. I wonder if she has infected Oghul Khaimish with her spells and words?’

‘I have heard nothing …’ Mongke broke off. ‘Yes, Ilugei. That will serve. Find out the truth of it.’ To be accused of witchcraft carried a terrible penalty. There would be no one willing to stand up for Oghul Khaimish once that was suspected.

Mongke found himself weary as he dismissed his officers and let Yao Shu in. The days were long for one who would be khan, but he had found his purpose. The wound would be cut and it would bleed itself clean. In just a few months, he would rule a Mongol empire without the corruption of the Chin at its heart. It was a fine dream and his eyes were bright with satisfaction as Yao Shu bowed before him.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

In her husband’s summer palace, Torogene sat in a silent hall, lit by a single, gently hissing lamp. She was dressed neatly in a white deel and new shoes of stitched white linen. Her grey hair was tied back tightly, so that not even a wisp escaped the twin clasps. She wore no jewels, as she had given them all away. At such a time, it was hard to look back on her life, but she could not focus on the present. Though her eyes were still swollen with weeping for Guyuk, she had found something resembling calm. Her servants were all gone. When the first one had reported soldiers coming along the road from Karakorum, she had felt her heart skip in her chest. There had been twelve servants, some of whom had been with her for decades. With tears, she had given them whatever silver and gold she could find and sent them away. They would only have been killed when the soldiers arrived, she was sure of that. News of Mongke’s death lists had already reached her, with a few details of the executions in the city. Mongke was clearing away anyone who had supported Guyuk as khan and she was not surprised he had sent soldiers to her, only weary.

When the last of her servants had gone, Torogene had found herself a quiet place in the summer palace to watch the sun set. She was too old to run, even if she thought she could have lost her pursuers. It was strange to see death as finally inevitable, but she found she could put aside all her fear and anger in the face of it. The grief for her beloved son was still fresh, perhaps too great to allow any sorrow for herself. She was worn down, as one who has survived a storm and lay sprawled on rocks, too dazed to do more than breathe and stare.

In the darkness outside, she heard voices as Mongke’s men rode in and dismounted. She could hear every whisper of sound, from the crunch of their feet on the stones, to the jingle of their harness and armour. Torogene raised her head, thinking back over better years. Her husband Ogedai had been a fine man, a fine khan, struck down too early by a vengeful fate. If he had lived … She sighed. If he had lived, she would not be alone and waiting for death in a palace that had once been a happy home. She thought suddenly of the roses Ogedai had given her. They would run wild in the gardens without someone to tend them. Her mind flitted from one thing to another, always listening for the steps coming closer.

She did not know if Ogedai would have been proud of Guyuk in the end. Her son had not been a great man. With all her future stripped away, she saw the past more clearly and there were many regrets, many paths she wished she had not taken. It was a foolish thing to look back and wish things had been different, but she could not help it.

When she heard a boot scrape at the outer door of the hall, her thoughts tore into rags and she looked up, suddenly afraid. Her hands twisted together in her lap as the warriors slid into the room, one after the other. They walked lightly, ready with weapons in case they were attacked. She could almost laugh at their caution. Slowly, she stood, feeling her knees and back protest.

The officer came to her, looking into her eyes with a puzzled expression.

‘You are alone, mistress?’ he asked.

For a moment, her eyes shone.

‘I am not alone. Do you not see them? My husband, Ogedai Khan, stands on my right hand. My son, Guyuk Khan, stands on my left. Do you not see those men watching what you do?’

The officer paled slightly, his eyes sliding right and left as if he could see the spirits watching over her. He grimaced, aware that his companions would be listening and every word reported to Mongke.

‘I have my orders, mistress,’ he said, almost apologetically.

Torogene raised her head further, standing as straight as she could.

‘I am brought down by dogs,’ she muttered, contempt banishing her fear. Her voice was strong as she spoke again. ‘There is a price for all things, soldier.’ She looked up, as if she could see through the stone roof above their heads. ‘Mongke Khan will fall. His eyes will fill with blood and he will not know rest or sleep or peace. He will live in pain and sickness and at the end …’

The officer drew his sword and brought it across her throat in one swift movement. She fell with a groan, suddenly limp as blood poured out of her and spattered on his boots. The watching men said nothing as they waited for her to die. When it was finished, they left quietly, unnerved in the silence. They did not look at each other as they mounted their horses and rode away.

As he faced Mongke, General Ilugei found himself strangely troubled, an unusual emotion for him. He knew it was a sound tactic for a new leader to sweep away all those who had supported his predecessor. Beyond that, it was the merest common sense to remove anyone with a blood tie to the previous regime. There would be no rebellions in the future, as forgotten children grew to manhood and learned to hate. The lessons of Genghis’ own life had been learned by his descendants.

Ilugei had taken particular pleasure in putting his own enemies on the lists he prepared for Mongke, a level of power he had never enjoyed before. He simply spoke a name to a scribe and within a day the khan’s loyal guards tracked them down and carried out the execution. There was no appeal against the lists.

Yet what Ilugei had seen that morning had unnerved him, ruining his usual composure. He had known still-born children before. His own wives had given birth to four of them over the years. Perhaps because of that, the sight of the tiny flopping body had sickened him. He suspected Mongke would think it a weakness in him, so he kept his voice calm, sounding utterly indifferent as he reported.

‘I think Guyuk’s wife may have lost her mind, my lord,’ he said to Mongke. ‘She talked and wept like a child herself. All the time she cradled the dead infant as if it was still alive.’

Mongke bit his lower lip in thought, irritated that such a simple thing should become so complicated. The heir had been the threat. Without one, he might have sent Oghul Khaimish back to her family. He was khan in all but name, he reminded himself. Yet his new authority stretched only so far. Silently, he cursed Ilugei’s man for going into such detail of her crimes. A public accusation of witchcraft could not be ignored. He clenched his fist, thinking of a thousand other things he had to do that day. Forty-three of Guyuk’s closest followers had been executed in just a few days, their blood still wet on the training ground of the city. More would follow in the days to come as he lanced the boil in Karakorum.

‘Let it stand,’ he said at last. ‘Add her name to the list and let there be an ending.’

Ilugei bowed his head, hiding his own obscure disappointment.

‘Your will, my lord.’

CHAPTER TWELVE

Oghul Khaimish stood on the banks of the Orkhon river, watching the dark waters flowing. Her hands were bound behind her, grown fat and numb in the bonds. Two men stood at her sides to prevent her throwing herself in before it was time. In the dawn cold, she shivered slightly, trying to control the terror that threatened to steal away her dignity.

Mongke was there, standing with some of his favourites. She saw him smile at something one of his officers said. Gone were the days when they would have made a bright and lively scene. To a man, his warriors and senior men were dressed in simple deels, without decoration beyond a little stitching. Most wore the traditional Mongol hairstyles, with a shaven scalp and topknot. Their faces shone with fresh mutton fat. Only Yao Shu and his few remaining Chin scribes were unarmed. The rest wore long swords that reached almost to their ankles, heavy cavalry blades designed for cutting down. Karakorum had its own foundry, where armourers sweated all day at their fires. It was no secret that Mongke was preparing for war once he had butchered the last of Guyuk’s supporters and friends.

Her husband’s supporters and friends. Oghul could not feel anything on that day, as if she had grown a protective sheath over her heart. She had lost too much in too short a time and she still reeled from all that had happened. She could not bear to look at her old servant Bayarmaa, trussed with a dozen others as they waited in sullen silence for Mongke to order their deaths.

The orlok seemed in no hurry. He was a solid figure at the centre of them, almost half as wide again as the largest warrior in his retinue. Despite his bulk, he moved easily, a man secure in his strength and still young enough to enjoy it. Oghul stood and dreamed of him being struck dead in front of them all, but it was just a fantasy. Mongke was oblivious to the misery in the huddled rank of prisoners. Even as she watched, he accepted a cup of airag from a servant, laughing with his friends. Somehow, that burned worse than anything, that he should care so little for their fate even as they stood on their last day. Oghul saw one of the bound men had lost control of his bladder, so that a thin stream of urine darkened his leggings and pooled at his feet. He did not seem to notice, his eyes already blank. She looked away, trying to find her own courage. All that man had to fear was a knife. For her, it would be slow.

It was no blessing that Mongke had agreed the wife of a khan was one of royal blood. She looked at the dark canal Ogedai had built and shivered again. She could feel the urge to empty her own bladder, though she had been careful not to drink that morning. Her face and hands felt cold as the blood was leached away and her heartbeat increased. Even so, she was sweating and the cloth at her armpits was already wet. She focused on the small changes in her body as she waited, trying desperately to distract herself.

Mongke finished his airag and tossed the cup back to the servant. He nodded to one of his officers and the man bellowed a command to come to order. All the men there straightened, even some of the prisoners, standing as tall as they could in their bonds. Oghul shook her head at the poor fools. Did they expect to impress their tormentors and gain mercy? There was none to be had.

Yao Shu was present and Oghul thought she could see the signs of great strain on the old man. She had heard the chancellor had been absent for the first executions, claiming illness. With a delicate feel for cruelty, Mongke had sensed his discomfort. Now Yao Shu played a part in all the deaths. Oghul listened to the list of names, watching sadly as each prisoner lifted his head slightly as he heard his own.

After the endless wait, the procedure suddenly started to go quickly. The prisoners were kicked to their knees and a very young warrior stepped from Mongke’s group, drawing a long sword. Oghul knew he would have earned the duty as a reward for some service to Mongke. Many of the warriors desired the task if they had not yet been blooded in battle. Oghul recalled that Genghis had killed tens of thousands in one foreign city for no other purpose than to train his men in the reality of killing.

She did not listen to Yao Shu’s shaking voice as he called out the charges, reading from the page in front of him. The executioner braced himself over the first kneeling figure, determined to make a good show in front of Mongke.

Oghul looked over the river as the killing began, ignoring the shouts of approval and laughter from among Mongke’s group. Bayarmaa was fourth in line and Oghul had to force herself to look as the old woman’s turn came. Her crime had only been by association with Oghul Khaimish, named as the one who corrupted the khan’s wife to dark magic.

Bayarmaa had not bowed her head or stretched her neck and the swordsman spoke harshly to her. She ignored him, looking over to where Oghul stood. They shared a glance and Bayarmaa smiled before she was killed in two hacking blows.

Oghul looked back again to the dark waters until it was over. When the last of them was dead, she turned to see the young warrior examining his blade with a stricken expression. No doubt it had chipped on bone. Mongke came forward and clapped him on the back, pressing a fresh cup of airag into his hands while Oghul watched in sullen hatred. When Mongke looked over at her, she felt her heart constrict in panic and her numb hands twisted in the rope.

Yao Shu spoke her name. This time there was definitely a quaver in his voice and even Mongke frowned at him. Genghis had decreed that royal blood would never be shed by his people, but the alternative filled Oghul with terror.

‘Oghul Khaimish, who has brought infamy to the name of the khan with witchcraft and foul practices, even unto … the killing of her own child.’

Oghul’s hands curled into fists at the last, reaching into the coldness within to keep her on her feet.

When Yao Shu had finished reading the charges, he asked if anyone would step forward and speak in her defence. The smell of blood was strong on the air and no one moved. Mongke nodded to the warriors standing with her.

Oghul stood shaking as she was lifted off her feet and laid on a thick mat of felt. She sensed muscles twitching in her legs, beyond her control. Her body wanted to run and could not. Yao Shu suddenly began to chant a prayer for her, his voice breaking. Mongke glared at him, but the old man spoke on.

The warriors rolled her over in the felt, so that the musty material pressed against her face and filled her lungs with dust. Panic swelled in her and she cried out, her gasping breath muffled in the cloth. She felt the tugging movement as they bound the roll of felt in reins of leather, yanking the buckles tight. She would not cry for help with Mongke listening, but she could not hold back a moan of fear, dragged from her like an animal in a trap. The stillness seemed to go on for ever. She could hear her heart thud in her chest and ears, a drum pulsing. Suddenly she was moving, turning over slowly as they rolled her towards the canal.

Freezing water flooded in and she struggled wildly then, seeing silver bubbles erupt all around her. The roll of felt sank quickly. She held her breath as long as she could.

Sorhatani lay with just a sheet over her, though the night was cold. Kublai knelt at her side and when he took her hand he almost recoiled at the heat from it. The fever had burnt its path through Karakorum and there were fewer new cases reported each day. Every summer it was the same. A few dozen or a few hundred would succumb to some pestilence. Very often it was those who had survived the last one, still weak and thin.

Kublai felt tears prick his eyes as his mother coughed, the sound building until she was choking, her back arched and her muscles standing out in narrow lines. He waited until she could draw a shuddering breath. She looked embarrassed that he had seen her so racked and she smiled weakly at him, her eyes glassy with fever.

‘Go on,’ she said.

‘Yao Shu has locked himself in his rooms. I’ve never seen him so distraught. It was not a good death.’

‘No such thing,’ Sorhatani said, wheezing. ‘It is never kind, Kublai. All we can do is ignore it until the time comes.’ The effort of speaking was enormous and he tried to stop her, but she waved his objections aside. ‘People do that so well, Kublai. They live knowing they will die, but no matter how many times they say the words, they don’t truly believe it. They think somehow that they will be the one death passes by, that they will live and live and never grow old.’ She coughed again and Kublai winced at the sound, waiting patiently until she could breathe once more.

‘Even now, I expect to … live, Kublai. I am a foolish old woman.’

‘Not foolish, or old,’ he said softly. ‘And I need you still. What would I do without you to talk to?’ He saw her smile again, but her skin wrinkled like old cloth.

‘I don’t plan … on joining your father tonight. I’d like to tell Mongke what I think of his death lists.’

Kublai’s expression grew sour.

‘From what I’ve heard, he has impressed the princes and generals. They are the sort of men who admire butchery. They are saying he is a new Genghis, mother.’

‘Perhaps … he is,’ she said, choking. Kublai passed a cup of apple juice into her hands and she sipped it with her eyes closed.

‘He could have banished Oghul Khaimish and her old servant,’ Kublai said. He had studied the life of his grandfather Genghis and he suspected his mother was right, but that did not remove the bitter taste. His brother had achieved a reputation for ruthlessness with fewer than a hundred deaths. It had certainly not hurt him with the nation. They looked to him as one who would bring a new era of conquest and expansion. For all his misgivings and personal dislike, Kublai felt they were probably right.

‘He will be khan, Kublai. You must not question what he does. He is no Guyuk - remember that. Mongke is strong.’

‘And stupid,’ he muttered.

His mother laughed and the coughing fit that followed was the worst he had seen. It went on and on and when she dabbed at her mouth with the sheet, he saw a spot of blood on the cloth. He could not drag his eyes away from it.

When the coughing fit passed, she shook her head, her voice barely a whisper.

‘He is no fool, Kublai. He understands far better than you realise. The khan’s vast armies cannot return to being herdsmen, not any more. He is riding the tiger now, my son. He dare not climb down.’

Kublai frowned, irritated that his mother seemed to be supporting Mongke in everything. He had wanted to share his anger with her, not have her excuse his brother’s acts. Before he spoke again, understanding came to him. Sorhatani had been his friend as well as his mother, but she would never see clearly with her sons. It was a blind spot in her. With sadness, he knew all he could achieve would be to hurt her. He closed his mouth on all the arguments he might have made and remained silent.

‘I will think on it,’ he said. ‘Now get well, mother. You will want to be there, to see Mongke made khan.’

She nodded weakly at his words and he dried the sweat from her face before he left her.

Guyuk’s body was burnt in a funeral pyre outside Karakorum and the days of mourning came to a climax. Even in the cool basements of the palace, the body had begun to rot and the pyre was thick with the smell of perfumed oils. Mongke watched as the edifice collapsed on itself in a gust of flame. Half the nation was drunk, of course, needing little excuse as they held a vigil to see the khan’s spirit into the next world. In their thousands they came drunkenly to the great fire, spattering drops of airag from their fingers or blowing them from their mouths. More than one ventured too close and fell back with shrieks as their clothing caught and had to be thumped out. In the darkness, moths and biting insects crackled in the flames, drawn from the city and the gers by the light. They died in their millions, black specks that wove trails over the pyre and fell into the flames. Mongke thought of the young women, servants and warriors who had been buried with Genghis. He smiled at the thought that Guyuk had only flies to attend him in death.

When the great pyre was reduced to a glowing heap, still higher than a man, Mongke sent for his brothers. Kublai, Hulegu and Arik-Boke fell into step beside him at his order and the small group walked back through the quiet city, leaving the nation to continue their revels. Children would be born as a result of the night. Men and women would be killed in drunken brawls, but that was the way of things: life and death intertwined for ever. It was fitting.

The city seemed empty as they walked together. Almost unconsciously, Mongke and Kublai led the group, opposites in physique and outlook. At their backs, Hulegu had the same broad forehead and heavy frame as Mongke, while Arik-Boke was the shortest, with eyes that flickered from man to man as he walked. An old scar disfigured the youngest brother, a thick line across Arik-Boke’s face that varied in colour from dark pink to the yellow of callus. An accident years before had left him with no bridge to his nose, so he could be heard breathing through his mouth as they walked. Any stranger would have known they were brothers, but there was more tension than friendship in that small group. They kept their silence, waiting to see what Mongke planned for them.

Kublai felt the strain more than the others. Only he had refused to give up his Chin style, from the cut of his hair to the fine silk weave of his robes. It was a small rebellion, but as yet, Mongke had chosen not to force the issue.

There were Night Guards at the palace, holding their own silent vigil as they stood to attention under the light of lamps. At Mongke’s approach, they held themselves like statues. Mongke did not seem to notice, so deep was he in thought. He swept across the outer yard and Arik-Boke had to trot to keep up with the others as they passed through the cloisters and on to the main audience room.

More of the khan’s Guards waited there, by doors of polished copper. No sign of green appeared on the shining sheets and there was a smell of floor wax and polish strong in the air. Mongke may not yet have been khan, but his orders were law in the city and he worked them all hard.

Kublai watched in hidden irritation as Mongke entered and crossed the chamber, pulling off the cloth from a jug of wine and pouring himself a cup that he knocked back in quick swallows. There was nowhere to sit. The room was almost bare, except for a long table covered with carelessly strewn scrolls and maps, some of them bound in bright-coloured thread. The glittering throne of Guyuk and Ogedai had disappeared, no doubt to languish in some storeroom for the next century.

‘Drink if you wish,’ Mongke said.

Hulegu and Arik-Boke moved to the table with him, leaving only Kublai standing alone and waiting to be told why they were there.

The answer was not long in coming.

‘I will be khan in the spring,’ Mongke said. He spoke without triumph, stating it as a simple fact. ‘I am orlok of the army and a grandson of Genghis. Baidur won’t challenge me and Batu has written to say I have his support.’

He paused as Kublai shifted slightly on his feet. The two most senior princes of the nation had been given vast lands in Ogedai’s will. They would not challenge his brother. For all Mongke’s plodding reasoning, he had risen above them all. He took his position for granted, but in truth he was the only man the tumans would accept.

‘So you will be khan, brother,’ Kublai said, accepting Mongke’s assessment. ‘Our father would be proud to see one of his sons rise so far.’

Mongke stared at him, searching for mockery. He found none and grunted, satisfied at his own dominance.

‘Even so, I will not leave you behind,’ Mongke told his brothers. Kublai noted how he addressed himself to Hulegu and Arik-Boke, but he nodded anyway as Mongke went on. ‘You will rise with me, as our father would have wanted. Tonight we will discuss the future of our family.’

Kublai doubted there would be much discussion. Mongke was confident in his new authority, dispensing wisdom as a father to his children, rather than as a brother. He clapped Hulegu on the shoulder and Kublai thought how alike they were. Though Mongke was slightly wider in the shoulder, Hulegu had the same cold eyes.

‘I will not wait for spring to begin the campaigns,’ Mongke said. ‘The world has waited too long for a weak khan to perish. Our enemies have grown strong without a hand on their throats, a knife at the neck of those they love. It is time to remind them who their masters are.’

Hulegu made some noise of appreciation as he drained another cup of the red wine and smacked his lips. Mongke looked on him with satisfaction, seeing the same qualities that Kublai did.

‘Hulegu, I have written orders for you to take command of Baidur’s army of the west, with three more tumans from Karakorum. I have made you orlok of a hundred thousand and given you three of my best men, Baiju, Ilugei and Kitbuqa.’

To Kublai’s embarrassment, Hulegu actually knelt and bowed his head.

‘Thank you, brother,’ he said, rising again. ‘It is a great honour.’

‘You will raze the ground south and west, using Samarkand as your base city. Baidur will not oppose my orders. Complete the work our grandfather began, Hulegu. Go further than he ever did. It is my aim that you will carve a new khanate for yourself, filled with riches.’

Mongke handed Hulegu a scroll and watched as his brother unrolled a map of the region, copied with great care and marked with the curved lines and dots of some long-dead Persian hand. Kublai stared at it in fascination, drawing closer despite himself. The library in Karakorum had many wonders he had not yet seen.

Hulegu spread the map on the table, holding it with wine cups at the edges. His eyes gleamed as he stared across the lands represented there. Mongke patted him on the back as he leaned in, pointing with his free hand.

‘The greatest city is there, brother, on the banks of the Tigris river. Genghis himself never reached so far. It is the centre of the faith they call Islam. You speak enough of the tongue, Hulegu. If you succeed, it will be the heart of your new khanate.’

‘It will be done, brother,’ Hulegu said, overwhelmed.

Mongke saw his pleasure and smiled, refilling a cup to hand to him.

‘The line of Tolui has come to rule,’ he said, glancing at Kublai. ‘We will not let it pass from us, not now. The path begun by Genghis will be cut further by our family. It must be fate, brothers. Our father gave his life for a khan, our mother held the city and the homeland together when it could all have been destroyed.’ His eyes shone with a vision of the future. ‘Everything that has gone before was to prepare our line for this moment, here. Four brothers in a room, with the world a sweet virgin waiting for us.’

Kublai watched silently as Hulegu and Arik-Boke grinned, swept up in Mongke’s grand words. He could not be comfortable standing apart from them, and on impulse he filled the spare cup with wine and drank it. His younger brothers moved aside for him to reach the jug, though Mongke frowned slightly. As Kublai sipped, he saw with a sinking feeling how Arik-Boke was practically quivering to be told his destiny, his scar a dark pink, almost red.

Mongke chose that moment to grip the arm of their youngest brother.

‘Arik, I have spoken to our mother and she has agreed this with me.’

Kublai looked up sharply at that. He did not think Sorhatani had been well enough to discuss anything.

Mongke went on, oblivious to Kublai’s suspicions.

‘She and I have agreed that you will inherit the homeland khanate, all but Karakorum itself, which will remain the khan’s property. I don’t want this pestilent place, but I’m told it has become a symbol for the people. The rest is yours, to rule in my name.’

Arik-Boke almost spilled his wine as he too knelt and dipped his head in fealty. As he came to his feet, Mongke gripped him round the back of the head and shook him affectionately.

‘Those lands were our father’s, Arik, and belonged to Genghis before that. Look after them. Make them green and thick with herds.’

‘I will, brother, I swear it,’ Arik-Boke replied. In just a few words, he had been granted unimaginable wealth. Herds and horses numbering in the millions awaited him, as well as great status in the nation. Mongke had made him a man of power in a breath.

‘I will speak more to both of you tomorrow,’ Mongke went on. ‘Come back at dawn and I will share everything I have planned.’

He turned to Kublai and the younger brothers grew still, understanding the tension that was always present between the two men. Mongke looked every inch the Mongol warrior in his prime. Kublai stood taller, his Chin robe in sharp contrast.

‘Leave us now, Hulegu, Arik,’ Mongke said softly. ‘I would have a word in private with our brother.’

Neither of the younger men looked at Kublai as they left. Both walked with a spring, thrust suddenly into their greatest ambitions. Kublai could almost envy their confidence and how easily it had been given to them.

When they were alone, Mongke carefully refilled the cups and handed one to Kublai.

‘And what am I to do with you, brother?’

‘You seem to have planned everything. Why don’t you tell me?’

‘You have barely left the city in your lifetime, Kublai. While I rode with Tsubodai in the west, you were here, playing with books and quills. When I was taking Kiev, you were learning to dress like a Chin woman and bathe twice a day.’ Mongke leaned closer to his brother and sniffed the air, frowning at the delicate scent around Kublai. ‘Perhaps a post in the city library would be suitable for a man of your … tastes.’

Kublai stiffened, aware that Mongke was deliberately taunting him. Nonetheless he felt his cheeks flush at the insults.

‘There is no shame in scholarship,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘If you are to be khan, perhaps I would be happiest here in the city.’

Mongke sipped his wine thoughtfully, though Kublai suspected he had already come to a decision, long before the meeting. His brother had no great intelligence, but he was thorough and patient. Those qualities could serve a man almost as well.

‘Yet I promised our father that I would look after the family, Kublai. I doubt he intended me to leave you with dusty scrolls and ink-stained fingers.’ Kublai refused to look down at his hands, though it was true enough. ‘He wanted warriors for sons, Kublai, not Chin scribes.’

Despite himself, Kublai was stung into a reply.

‘When we were young, brother, Genghis himself told his men to come to me when they had a problem. He told them I could see through the thickest patch of thorns. Are you asking me what I want from you?’

Mongke smiled slowly.

‘No, Kublai. I am telling you what I want. Hulegu will tear down the strongholds of Islam, Arik-Boke will keep the homeland safe. I have a hundred other irons in the fire, brother, as far away as Koryo. Every day, I am presented with the envoys and ambassadors of a dozen small nations. I am the khan elect, the heart of the nation. But you have another path to tread, the work Ogedai and Genghis left unfinished.’

Kublai’s mind leapt to the conclusion and he swallowed uncomfortably.

‘The Sung,’ Kublai muttered.

‘The Sung, Kublai. Dozens of cities, millions of peasants. It will be your life’s work. In my name, you will bring an end to what Genghis began.’

‘And how would you have me accomplish this grand dream of yours?’ Kublai asked quietly, masking his nervousness with a deep gulp of wine.

‘Genghis started the conquest of the Chin with the region of Xi Xia. My advisers have found another gate into the Sung. I would have you take an army along the south-western border, Kublai, into the Yunnan region. There is only a single city there, though they can call on an army to equal mine. Still, I think it will not be too great a task, even for an unblooded man.’ He smiled to take the sting out of his condescension. ‘I would have you become the grandson Genghis wanted, Kublai, a Mongol conqueror. I find I have the means and the will to change your life. Swear an oath to me today and I will give you the authority to lead tumans. I will make you the terror of the Sung court, a name they dare not speak aloud.’

Kublai drained his cup and shuddered, feeling gooseflesh rise along his arms. He had to voice his first suspicion, or have it nag at him ever after.

‘Are you expecting me to be killed, brother, by sending me against such an enemy? Is that your plan?’

‘Still looking for games and plots?’ Mongke replied with a laugh. ‘I think Yao Shu had you too long in his care, brother. Sometimes things are simple, as they should be. I would lose valuable cannons and my best general with you. Would I send Uriang-Khadai to his death? Put your mind at ease, brother. In a few months, I will become khan. Have you any idea what that means to me? I remember Genghis. To stand in his place is … worth more than I can explain. I don’t need to play games or construct complicated schemes. The Sung have already raided into Chin territory, on more than one front. Unless I answer them soon with force, they will slowly take back what Genghis conquered. That is my only plan, brother. My only aim.’

Kublai saw simple truth in Mongke’s stare and he nodded. In a revelation, he realised his brother was trying to fit the role he had won for himself. A khan needed a breadth of vision, to be able to rise above the petty squabbles of family and nation. Mongke was struggling to do just that. It was impressive, and with an effort Kublai shrugged off his doubts.

‘What oath would you have?’ he said at last. Mongke was watching him closely, his own emotions well hidden.

‘Swear to me that you will put aside your Chin ways, that on campaign you will dress and act and look like a Mongol warrior, that you will train with sword and bow every morning until you are exhausted. Swear that you will not read a scholar’s book for the whole time you are on campaign, not one, and I will give you an army today. I will give you Uriang-Khadai, but the command will be your own.’ For a moment, a sneer touched his lips. ‘If that is all too much, then you may return to the libraries here and wait out the years to come, always wondering what you could have been, what you could have done with your life.’

Kublai’s thoughts whirled. Mongke was trying to be a khan. It seemed he thought a similar change could be wrought in his brother. It was almost endearing to see the big brute so earnest. Kublai thought of Yao Shu and the peaceful years he had spent in Karakorum. He had loved the silences of study, the glories of insight. Yet part of him had always dreamed of leading men in war. His grandfather’s blood ran in him as much as it did in Mongke.

‘You promised Hulegu a khanate, if he could take Baghdad,’ Kublai said after what felt like an age.

Mongke laughed aloud, the sound echoing. He had begun to worry that his scholar brother would refuse him. He felt almost drunk on his own foresight as he reached for the pile of maps and documents.

His finger rested on the vast lands of northern China and he stabbed it down.

‘There are two areas here, brother. Nan-ching and Ching-chao. They are mine to give. Choose either one, with my blessing. You will have your stake in Chin lands, your own estates. If you agree to this, you will be able to visit them. Before I promise you more, let me see you can win battles for me.’ His smile remained as he saw Kublai examine the maps minutely, fascinated. ‘Are we agreed then?’

‘Give me Yao Shu as my adviser and we are,’ Kublai said, letting the words spill out before he could think his choices to death. There were times when a decision had to be made quickly and part of him was filled with the same excitement he had seen in his younger brothers.

‘You have him,’ Mongke said immediately. ‘By the sky father, you can have all the Chin scholars left in Karakorum if you say yes to this! I will see my family rise, Kublai. The world will know our names, I swear it.’

Kublai had been looking closely at the maps. Nan-ching ran close to the Yellow river and he recalled that the plain was prone to flooding. The area was populous and Mongke would surely expect him to choose it. Ching-chao was further to the north of Yenking, on the boundary of the Mongol homeland. It had hardly any towns marked. He wished Yao Shu were there to give his opinion.

‘With your permission, I will take Ching-chao,’ he said at last.

‘The small one? It is not enough. I will give you …’ Mongke traced a line on the map as he peered at it, ‘Huai-meng as well. Estates so vast they are almost a khanate, brother. More will come if you are successful. You cannot say I have not been generous.’

‘You have given me more than I expected,’ Kublai said honestly. ‘Very well, brother. You have my oath. I will try to be the man you want.’ He held out his hand and Mongke gripped it in pride and satisfaction. Both of them were surprised at the strength of the other.

In the spring, the nation gathered on the plain of Avraga, deep in the ancestral homeland. The oldest men and women could still remember when Genghis had bound the tribes there, replacing their individual banners with just one staff of horse-tails, bleached white. The plain was vast and almost flat, so that it was possible to see for miles in any direction. A single stream ran through one part of it and Mongke made a point of drinking the water, where Genghis would have stood so many years before.

Batu had left his Russian estates to come with his honour guards, the image of his father, Jochi. He had been visibly distressed to find Sorhatani so wasted and thin, racked with a coughing illness that grew worse each day. Fevers came and went in her and there were times when Kublai believed she only hung on to life to see Mongke made khan.

From the west came Baidur, the son of Chagatai. His wealth was obvious in the gold he wore and the fine horses of a thousand guards. As khan of the homeland, Arik-Boke had arranged it all, so that they arrived over two months. One by one, the princes and generals rode in and made camp, until even that open plain was black with people and animals. Christian monks came from as far as Rome and France, and the princes of Koryo had travelled many thousands of miles to attend the man who would rule them. Until the last were in, the gathering traded and exchanged goods and horses, brokering deals that would make some rich and others poor for a generation. Airag and wine flowed freely and animals were slaughtered by the tens of thousands to feast them all.

When it was time, Mongke rode out among the host and they knelt to him and gave their oath. No one challenged him. He was the grandson of Genghis Khan and he had proven his bloodline, his right to lead. The bitter years under Guyuk were put firmly behind them. Kublai knelt with the others, thinking of the army he must take into Sung lands. He wondered if Mongke truly understood the challenge he had set. Kublai had spent most of his life in the city. He had honed his mind with the greatest philosophies of Lao Tzu, Confucius and the Buddha, but all that was behind. As Mongke became khan on a roar of acclamation, Kublai shivered, telling himself it was anticipation and not fear.

PART TWO

‘Fire is the test of gold; adversity of strong men.’

- Seneca

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Suleiman was old, but mountains and deserts had hardened his flesh, so that sinews and narrow muscles could be seen shifting against each other under his skin. In his sixtieth year, his will remained strong, simmered down to diamond hardness by the life he had led. When he spoke, his voice was gently reproving.

‘That is not what I asked, Hasan, now is it? I asked if you knew who had stolen food from the kitchens, not if you had done it yourself.’

Visibly trembling, Hasan mumbled an unintelligible answer. He knelt on the stone floor before Suleiman’s great chair. His master was dressed in heavy robes against the pre-dawn chill, while Hasan wore only a grubby linen shift. In the shadow of mount Haudegan, the room saw the sun only in the afternoons. Until then, it could have been used to keep meat from spoiling.

‘Come closer, Hasan,’ Suleiman said, chuckling.

He waited until the man shuffled on his knees to the foot of the chair and then Suleiman snapped out his arm, backhanding him across the face. Hasan tumbled, pulling in his legs and hiding his head in his hands. Blood dripped from his nose and he looked in terrified silence at the shining drops. As Suleiman watched, the young man reached out with a finger and smeared a red line on the stones. His eyes filled with tears and Suleiman laughed aloud.

‘A few stolen cakes, Hasan. Were they worth it?’

Hasan froze, unsure whether the question held a trap for him or not. He nodded slowly and Suleiman tutted to himself.

‘I wish all men lied as badly as you do, Hasan. The world would be less interesting, but so many problems would simply vanish. Is there anything in that head of yours that understands you are not to steal from me? That I always find out and punish you? Yet still you do it. Fetch me my stick, Hasan.’

The young man looked at his master in abject misery. He shook his head, but he had learned it would only be worse if he refused. With Suleiman watching in amusement, he stumbled to his feet to cross the frozen room, feeling his bruised body protest. There were few days when he was not beaten. He did not understand why his master hurt him. He wished he had resisted the honeycakes, but the smell had driven him almost to madness. Over the years, Suleiman had broken too many of his teeth for him to eat without pain and the honeycakes were soft, dissolving on his tongue with something like ecstasy.

Suleiman patted the young man’s hand as Hasan gave him the stick. It was a walking cane with a weighted tip and a dagger blade hidden in the handle, suitable in all ways for the one who led the clan of Ismaili Assassins in Alamut. He saw Hasan was weeping and he put a thin arm around his shoulder as he stood.

‘Hush, lad. Is it the stick you fear?’ His tone was gentle.

Hasan nodded miserably.

‘I understand. You don’t want to be hit. But if I don’t, you will steal again, won’t you?’

Hasan didn’t understand and he looked blankly at the old man with his cruel, black eyes and scrawny face. Hasan was both younger and wider than Suleiman, his shoulders made powerful by endless labour in the gardens. He might even have stood taller if he straightened his back. Even so, he flinched when the old man kissed his cheek.

‘Better that you accept your punishment like a good boy. Can you do that for me? Can you be brave?’

Hasan dipped his head, tears spilling from his eyes.

‘That’s it. Dogs, boys and women, Hasan. They must all be beaten, or they are spoiled.’ Suleiman brought the stick round with a sudden snap, cracking it against Hasan’s skull. The young man yelped and fell back as Suleiman stepped closer, raining blows on him. In desperation, Hasan covered his face and Suleiman immediately hit him in the chest with his bony fist, at the point just above the stomach and below the breastbone. Hasan folded to the floor with a low groan, straining to suck in a breath.

Suleiman watched him affectionately, surprised to find he was panting slightly. Old age was a curse. He might have continued chastising the simpleton if his son had not chosen that moment to clatter up the stairs to the room. Rukn-al-Din barely glanced at Hasan as he strode in.

‘They have sent a response, father.’

Suleiman’s mood went sour at the words and he stood in thought, rubbing a spot of blood from the stick with his thumb.

‘And what do they say, my son? Will you keep me waiting?’

Rukn flushed. ‘They sent our man back unharmed, but the message is to abandon our fortresses.’

Suleiman gestured for Hasan to rise and handed the stick to him to be put away. It was odd, but he preferred the simpleton’s company to his own son at times, like a favourite hound. Perhaps it was that Hasan could never be a disappointment, as Suleiman expected so little from him.

‘Nothing else?’ Suleiman said. ‘No negotiation, no counter-offer? Has this khan’s brother, this Hulegu, given me nothing for the pains I have taken?’

‘No father, I am sorry.’

Suleiman did not curse or show any reaction. He regarded such displays as ultimately futile, or worse, an advantage to his enemies. Even when he grew warm from beating Hasan, he was still able to talk calmly and kindly. As he thought, he detected the distant clinking of porcelain cups coming up the winding stair to his tower. He smiled in anticipation.

‘It is almost time for my morning tea, Rukn. Will you join me?’

‘Of course, father,’ Rukn replied. He had not heard the woman approaching and his eyes swivelled to her in surprise as she entered with a heavy tray. At times, his father’s talents seemed to approach the mystical. Certainly he knew everything that occurred in the fortress, from the smallest whisper to the skills and training of each of the men.

Hasan turned quickly as he heard her step. Kameela meant ‘most perfect’ in Arabic and she was as beautiful as her name suggested, with black hair and smooth olive skin. Her hips swayed as she walked and Hasan could not take his eyes from them.

Suleiman chuckled at the sight of Hasan so entranced. It had been a whim two years before to give her to Hasan as his wife. Suleiman had enjoyed the confusion and terror in the fool as he understood the gift. Hasan had not been with a woman before and it had amused Suleiman greatly. If he had one area of expertise, it was in finding the weak points of other men. Hasan could be made to do anything for fear Kameela would be hurt. At times, Suleiman could treat his pain almost as artistry, with the fool as his canvas. He recorded much of what passed between them, for the edification and instruction of future masters of the order. There were few such detailed records in existence and it pleased him to add to the world’s knowledge.

Kameela served tea to him without once looking at her husband. Suleiman watched her self-control in delight. A dog could be taught only simple tricks, but people were wonderfully subtle and complex. He knew she dared not acknowledge Hasan in his presence. Suleiman had thrashed him bloody at her feet on a number of occasions, for just a word or a smile. He had known the fool would fall in love with the beautiful young woman, but the miracle had been that she seemed to return his affection. Suleiman cradled his tea in his skinny hands, watching over the rim as he inhaled the delicate scent. If only he could make the Mongol generals dance as easily as his servants.

As Kameela bowed, Suleiman reached out and ran a finger slowly along her jawline.

‘You are very beautiful,’ he said.

‘You honour me, my lord,’ she said, her head still bowed.

‘Yes,’ he replied. Suleiman showed his yellow teeth as he drained his tea. ‘Take Hasan with you, my flower. I must talk to my son.’

Kameela bowed at the dismissal and Suleiman watched as Hasan shambled after her, his hands shaking. He was tempted to call them back, indeed had intended to do so, but Rukn-al-Din began speaking again before he could. His son’s eyes were irritated.

‘The Shirat fortress could be taken down, as some proof of our resolve. The place is unsafe as it is, full of lizards and cracked stones. If we made a show of destroying Shirat, it would buy us another year at least. Perhaps by then, the Mongol armies will have moved on.’

Suleiman regarded his son, wishing once more that he had managed to sire a man of intelligence. For years he had hoped to produce an heir in his own image, but those hopes and dreams had long been ashes.

‘You do not placate a tiger by feeding it your own flesh,’ he snapped. Hasan and Kameela had made their escape and he was angry with Rukn for interrupting his pleasures. ‘If such an abomination is to be my legacy, he will have to drag it out of us. We must find what this general wants and pray he is not like his grandfather Genghis. I think not. Men like that are rare.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Rukn said.

‘No, because you are a man of weakness, combined with appetites, which is why you have a belly and must visit my doctors to burn the warts off your manhood.’

Suleiman paused for a beat, waiting to see if his son would dare respond to the insults. Rukn-al-Din stayed silent and Suleiman made a sound of derision before he went on.

‘When Genghis came to my father’s home, he desired only destruction. The khan cared nothing for wealth and looked to himself for power and titles. Be thankful the world has not seen too many of such men, my son! For the rest, there is always something. You have offered this Hulegu peace and been refused. Offer him gold now and see what he says.’

‘How much should I take to him?’ Rukn said.

His father sighed.

‘Not a single coin. If you return to him with carts of jewels, he will wonder how much we have kept back. He will struggle all the harder to see our fortresses brought down. Even Genghis took tribute from cities, because those around him enjoyed the glitter of fine metals and rubies. Offer … exactly half of everything in the treasury here, so that we may double the offer when he refuses.’

‘You would have me give him everything?’ Rukn asked in amazement.

His father slapped him viciously across the face, making him fall back in pain and shock. Suleiman’s voice was utterly calm as he continued to speak.

‘What comfort will it be to have gold in our pouches if Alamut and Shirat are gone? In all the world no one dares threaten us but these. The Mongols must not come here, my son. No fortress can stand for ever, not even Alamut. I would offer him the clothes from my back if I thought for a single instant that he would leave us in peace. Perhaps he can be bought with gold. We will find out.’

‘And then? If he refuses, what then?’ Rukn said. His cheek was flaming from the blow.

‘If he refuses gold, we will make rubble of Shirat, once a jewel of our possessions. Did you know I was born there, my son? Yet I will give it up if it saves the rest.’ He shook his head in weary cynicism. ‘If the Mongol prince demands still more, I will have no choice but to send our best men to poison his food and wine, to strike down his officers and to murder him as he sleeps. I have tried to avoid such a course, my son. I do not want to enrage this destroyer of towns, this slaughterer of women and children.’

Suleiman clenched his fists for a moment. His father had sent men against the great khan and they had failed. The result was a whirlwind of destruction that had left cities ruined and a swathe of death across the region. There were deserts where Genghis had passed, to that day.

‘If he gives us no other choice, I will take his life. The man who threatens our very existence is no greater than the goat-herds tending my flocks. They can all die.’

Hulegu watched the corpses swinging gently in the breeze. Mongke would be proud of him, he was certain. He had shown no mercy as he drove south and west of Samarkand. The word would go out that there was a new khan and that he should be feared. Hulegu understood his task and he relished earning his older brother’s approval. Only nine young men remained from the town after Hulegu’s warriors slaughtered every other living thing. The river was running red as bodies in the water were drained by the tugging current. Hulegu was pleased at the sight, imagining that the colour would be carried for a hundred miles, bringing fear to all those who saw it. There would be no gates closed to him as he marched, not again.

He had burnt three small cities and a dozen towns as he moved west, killing few, but leaving the inhabitants destitute and hungry, with every loaf and jar of oil or salt taken for his men. He did not know the name of the walled town which had tried to resist, barring their gates with iron and retreating into the cellars while their soldiers held the walls.

It had fallen in just a day. Though he did not have the numbers of cannon that Mongke had given Kublai, there were still enough. In a line of eighty, the polished rock balls smashed open the gates with two blows, but he had not paused to assault the town. Instead, he had ordered the guns to keep firing, cracking the stones to rubble and sending defenders flying in sprays of blood. The tumans had watched indifferently, waiting for his orders.

Only the thought that he should not waste his dwindling store of black powder made Hulegu call the halt. He enjoyed the thunder he could bring with just a wave of his hand. It was intoxicating to say ‘Fall’ and have a city wall hammered to pieces before his eyes. He sent his men in that evening, loping on foot as they rushed to be first to loot the town.

Young women were raped, then tied together in weeping groups, ready for the gambling and bargains that would follow. Children and the elderly were killed as they were found. As with the battered men of the town, they were of no value. Gold and silver items were stripped from each house and piled in the central square to be weighed and assessed. Hulegu had his own forges with him. His habit was to melt the precious metals, skimming off the impurities and alloys as they rose out of the denser gold. Persian chemists directed the work, sending ancient items to feed the flames. They were allowed to keep a tithe of all they collected, one part in a thousand to split between them. Already they were wealthy men and Hulegu had been forced to cut hundreds of trees and wait as the new timber was made into carts to carry the wealth.

Many of the defenders had fallen as the walls collapsed, coughing and choking on dust. Some tried to surrender, and for those Hulegu had only contempt. He stared with pleasure at the swinging bodies. He did not hang them by the neck, to die quickly. A few were hung by the feet, but most were held by ropes under their armpits and gashed across their stomachs to bleed to death. They lasted a long time and their cries could be heard across the hills.

When the town was burning, Hulegu signalled to General Ilugei to cut the bonds holding his prisoners. They were all men who had fought with courage and been battered to the ground. From a town of ten thousand, it was a pitifully small number, but he could at least have the glimmerings of respect for those few. He watched in stern silence as they stood and rubbed their wrists. Two of the nine were sobbing, while the rest stared at him in mute horror and impotent rage. He felt it like good wine in his mouth, making him strong.

He did not speak the local tongue, so he had his words repeated by one of the chemists, a turban-wearing Moslem named Abu-Karim.

‘I will give you horses,’ Hulegu said. ‘You will go ahead of my warriors, my carts and guns. Ride west and south and tell them I am coming. Tell each man you meet that he must open his doors to me, that he must give me his wives and daughters to be mine and his wealth, which will also be mine. He may keep his life. Tell them that if a city, or a town, or a single home bars its doors to me, I will visit destruction on them all, until the earth itself cries out in pain.’

He turned away then, not bothering to wait until the translator was finished. Baghdad was to the south-west and the caliph there had sent more blustering threats and lies. To the north, Hulegu felt the pull of the Assassin strongholds. He grunted in irritation at being caught between the two desires.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Kublai could see a multitude around him, from those digging toilet pits, to warriors leading horses and women tending cooking fires for their husbands and sons. He had never known the life of a moving tribe, but something in him found peace in it. Looking into the distance, he wondered again at the veritable nation he had brought south. There must have been half a million souls in the column that rode down the border of Sung lands. He was not even sure of the true number.

He stretched his back with a soft groan as his wife and son prepared his ger for him. Not that little Zhenjin was much use, he noticed. Mongke’s orders had not extended to his family and the ten-year-old still wore a Chin silk tunic and leggings, down to a pair of soft sheepskin boots. His topknot of black hair flicked back and forth with every movement. Kublai tried not to laugh as he saw the boy sneak a handful of steaming meat scraps from the pile that Chabi was working into pouches. She had only looked away for a moment, but the boy had quick hands. Zhenjin had stuffed his cheeks before she turned back. It was bad luck that his mother chose that moment to ask a question, or perhaps not. Chabi adored and spoiled her first-born, but that did not mean her instincts were blunt. As Zhenjin struggled to reply around a mouthful of hot meat, she poked him in the stomach and he sprayed bits of food, giggling.

Kublai smiled. He could still be surprised at the strength of his emotions when he looked over his family. It wasn’t just that the boy delighted him, but a moment with his family could bring sudden understanding of his own parents. His father had given his life to save a khan, and Kublai finally appreciated the scale of that sacrifice. The man had acted for the nation, knowing he would never see his sons or his wife again. In a strange way, it left a debt to be paid by all of them, as well as a sense that however they lived their lives, they could not equal their father’s final act. Kublai sensed Mongke struggled with the same burden. His older brother was trying to fit an ideal, but he would never know peace looking for the approval of the dead.

At least Mongke had not stinted in men or supplies. With Uriang-Khadai as orlok and Bayar as his senior general, Kublai travelled with two hundred iron cannon and thousands more carts filled with gunpowder and equipment under heavy tarpaulins. He had a staff of ninety-four men and women to handle the moving nation. As he stood there in his reverie, he could see some of them close by. When he had eaten, they would come to him with the details, plaints and problems of so many. He sighed at the thought, but the tasks were not beyond him, not yet. He crashed into slumber each night, yet still rose before dawn and practised with the sword and bow. When the armour had begun to feel light on him, Kublai could even imagine thanking Mongke for the changes he had wrought. The khan knew more about being a warrior than his brother. Unfortunately, it was all he knew.

Kublai felt an itch in his armpit and worked his thumb under the iron scales to scratch the sores there, grunting at the small pleasure. Life was good. He had seen his Chin estates, and in his mind’s eye, green shoots were rising quickly from the black earth. Just sinking a few painted poles into the soft ground had marked a grand new venture in his life. Yao Shu had arranged the lease of thousands of plots, with the rent to be paid from the first crops. If the Chin farmers prospered, two-fifths would be Kublai’s and the money would go to making a city in the north.

It was a dream worth having, something beyond the mass of warriors and horses that filled his sight to the horizons. Though it was little more than a vast square marked out on grassland, his men had already begun calling it Shang-du, the ‘Upper Capital’. Those who did not speak the Chin languages called it Xanadu. He whispered the word aloud.

With a sigh, Chabi wiped a hand across her brow and told Zhenjin to carry the platter inside for the stove. Kublai’s mouth filled with saliva. He was always hungry these days. His wife stood and stretched her own back. He looked over at her and their eyes met, united in their weariness. His mind lost the visions of palaces as his stomach rumbled.

‘Did you get me a skin of wine?’ he said.

‘Of course,’ she replied, ‘though I hope you will not leave it empty again and complain tomorrow about how your head is bursting. There will be no sympathy from me.’

‘I never complain!’ he said, wounded. ‘I am like a stone for keeping silent.’

‘Was that some other man stumbling around the ger this morning, then? Cursing and demanding to know who had stolen his hat? I thought it was you. In fact, I hope it was you, because he was very active last night, whoever he was.’

‘You were dreaming, woman.’

She grinned at him and flicked her long hair back from her face, working quickly with her hands to tie it. He stared deliberately at her breasts as they moved under the cloth and she snorted.

‘There is a fresh bucket of water at the door for you to wash, old goat. Don’t stay out here dreaming, so the food gets cold. I know you will complain anyway, but I will ignore you.’

She went inside and Kublai could hear her berating Zhenjin for stealing some of the pouches. Kublai chuckled to himself. When he had set out from Karakorum, he had not known how long it would take to reach the Sung lands. It was almost two years since Mongke had become khan and Kublai had spent a year of that simply travelling, moving his great host south, day after day. His tumans were with their families and there was no sense of impatience in their ranks. They did not need to stop to live. For them, the journey was as much their lives as reaching the destination. In the evenings, they played with their children, sang, gambled, made love, tended the animals or a thousand other small things that they could do anywhere. For a man who had lived most of his life in Karakorum, it was a strange thing to see.

Kublai had kept his oath to Mongke and not opened a single scroll or book since leaving the city. At first, it had been a terrible hardship and he had slept badly, dreaming of old texts. On the borders of Sung lands there were many signs of that ancient culture. They had already passed through hundreds of small towns and villages and Kublai had not been able to resist snapping up written works when he found them. His growing collection travelled with him like an itch at the back of his mind.

It had been Yao Shu who offered to read them to him in the evenings. Though Kublai was uncomfortable at skirting his oath, he could not deny it was a comfort. His son Zhenjin seemed to enjoy the droning voice and sat up late when he should have been asleep, listening to every word. Kublai’s mind had suffered like a desert in time of drought and the ideas poured in, reviving him.

His body too had toughened in the months of travel. Saddle sores were just a painful memory. Like the experienced warriors, he had developed a sheath of dark yellow callus on his lower spine, about the width of a man’s hand across. He reached behind him to scratch it, frowning at the sweat-slick that stayed on his skin no matter how often he bathed. Mongke could not object to his being clean, at least. Though he wore the scaled armour, Kublai suffered less with rashes and skin rot than his men. In the humid summer, a scent of bad meat overlaid even the odour of wet wool and horses. Kublai still missed the cool Chin robes he had grown to love.

The orlok of his tumans had a ger in sight of Kublai’s, with three women and a host of servants tending his every need. Kublai squinted to see Uriang-Khadai standing over one of them, giving some instruction about the best way to stitch a saddle. The orlok’s back was arrow-straight, as always. Kublai snorted to himself. He had already decided Uriang-Khadai was Mongke’s man, the khan’s eyes on their expedition. The orlok was an experienced officer of the sort who would certainly impress his brother. He had even scarred his cheeks to prevent a beard growing. The keloid ridges proclaimed that he put duty above self, though Kublai saw it as a sort of twisted vanity.

As Kublai watched, Uriang-Khadai felt the scrutiny and turned sharply to face him. Caught staring, Kublai raised his hand as if in greeting, but the orlok pretended he had not seen and turned away to his own ger, his own little world within the camp. Kublai suspected the man saw him as a mere scholar, given authority by his brother for no great merit. When they met each day, he could see Uriang-Khadai’s subtle amusement as Kublai laid out his strategies. There was little liking between them, but it did not truly matter, as long as he continued to obey. Kublai yawned again. He could smell his meal on the breeze and his mouth ached for wine to take the edge off his thoughts. It was the only way to ease his mind, to stop it tearing every idea to pieces and then making new things with the scraps. With a last look around him, he realised he could relax. Some of the tension left his shoulders and back as he ducked into the ger and was immediately ambushed by Zhenjin, who had waited patiently for him.

The tumans were never quite alone as they drifted south. With such a vast and slow assemblage, they could not possibly surprise the Sung nation. There were always scouts watching from the nearest hills. Word had gone ahead. The most recent villages were all abandoned, some of them with odd markings of blood in the road. Kublai wondered if the inhabitants had been slaughtered rather than left to give aid to an enemy. He could believe it. Though he loved the culture, he had no illusions about their brutality or the sort of armies his men would face. The Sung outnumbered him by hundreds to one. They had walled cities, cannon and flame weapons, good steel, crossbows and excellent discipline. As he trotted his horse, he listed their strengths and weaknesses as he had a thousand times before. Their strengths were intimidating, impossible. The only weaknesses he had been able to think of were that they had few cavalry and that they chose their officers for nobility of birth, or with written examinations in their cities. Compared with men like Uriang-Khadai and Bayar, Kublai hoped the Sung generals would also be considered effete scholars. He could beat scholars.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of his scouts ride up to Uriang-Khadai and report. Kublai kept facing forward, though he felt his heart beat faster in anticipation. Four days before, the Mongol column had crossed the Sung border and begun to move east. Whatever the Sung armies had been doing for the months of his approach, they would have to respond. He had been expecting contact. He had done everything he could with their formations and battle plans, but all of that would change when he met the enemy at last. Kublai smiled as a memory of one book flashed into his mind. He did not have to read it again to know every line. He had memorised the work by Sun Tzu many years before. The irony of a book on the art of war being written by a Chin general was not lost on him. The Sung would know it just as well.

Uriang-Khadai rode slowly over to him, deliberately unhurried, though thousands of interested eyes watched the orlok’s progress. He reached Kublai and dipped his head formally.

‘The enemy are in the field, my lord,’ he said, his voice as clipped and dry as if he discussed the rations. ‘They have taken up a position on the other side of a river, some twenty miles further east and south. My scouts report two hundred thousand infantry and some ten thousand horsemen.’

His voice was deliberately unimpressed, but Kublai felt sweat break out in his armpits, stinging the scabs there. The numbers were terrifying. He did not think Genghis had ever faced so many, except perhaps at the Badger’s Mouth, far to the north.

‘If I may, my lord?’ Uriang-Khadai said into the silence.

Kublai nodded for him to go ahead, suppressing his irritation at the man’s pompous tone.

‘They could have attacked after we crossed the river, but with it still between us, I suggest we ride on. We can force them away from whatever traps and trenches they have dug. The Yunnan city of Ta-li is only another hundred miles south. If we continue towards it, they will have no choice but to follow.’

Uriang-Khadai waited patiently while Kublai thought. The orlok had not minded Kublai’s endless interference in the supplies and formations. Such things were to be expected from a new man. The battles, however, were the orlok’s responsibility. Mongke himself had made that clear before they left.

‘Look after him,’ the khan had said. ‘Don’t let my younger brother get himself killed while he’s in a dream.’ The two old campaigners had shared a smile of understanding and then Uriang-Khadai had ridden out. Now the time was upon him and he was prepared to guide Kublai through his first taste of warfare.

While he waited, Uriang-Khadai rubbed the ridge-lines of his cheeks. There were a few stubborn bristles that had somehow survived the years of scarring. He was never sure whether he should cut himself again or just yank the things out when they grew long enough. As Kublai pondered, Uriang-Khadai curled one long hair around his finger and jerked it free.

‘We must cross the Chin-sha Chiang river,’ Kublai said suddenly. He had pictured maps in his imagination, his recall almost perfect. Uriang-Khadai blinked in surprise and Kublai nodded, making his decision.

‘That is the name of the river you mentioned, orlok. It lies between us and the city I have been told to take. We must cross it at some point. They know the ground, which is why they have gathered on that side. They are content to defend it wherever we choose to cross. If we find a fording point, they will slaughter us in the waters, reducing us to the narrow ranks we can put in.’

Uriang-Khadai shook his head, struggling to find the right words to persuade a sheltered academic who had barely left Karakorum in his life.

‘My lord, they already have every advantage. We cannot also give them the choice of land, or we risk annihilation. Let me lure them along the banks for thirty miles. I will have the scouts out looking for places to cross. There will be more than one. We can have archers cover those crossing and then we can come up behind them.’

Kublai could feel the silent pressure from Uriang-Khadai, waiting for him to give way. The man was too obvious and it irritated him.

‘As you say, orlok, they have chosen their ground carefully. They will expect us to rush across the river like the wild tribesmen they think we are and then die in our thousands.’ He thought suddenly of a way to get enough men across quickly and he smiled.

‘No. We will take them on here, orlok. We will surprise them.’

Uriang-Khadai stammered for an instant.

‘My lord, I must advise against your decision. I …’

‘Send General Bayar to me, Uriang-Khadai. Return to the tumans.’

The orlok bowed his head instantly, all sign of his anger vanishing like a snuffed candle.

‘Your will, my lord.’

He rode away even more stiff-backed than he had come. Kublai stared sourly after him. It was not long before Bayar was in the orlok’s place, looking worried. He was relatively young for his authority, a man in his early thirties. Unlike Uriang-Khadai, he had a smooth face, except for a wisp of black hair at his chin. There was a strong odour of rot around him. Kublai had long grown used to it as he accepted the man’s greeting. He was in no mood to ease Bayar’s misgivings.

‘I have a task for you, general. I order you to carry it out without complaint or argument, do you understand?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ Bayar replied.

‘When I was a boy, I read about warriors with Genghis crossing a river using a sheepskin raft. Have you heard of such a thing?’

Bayar shook his head, flushing slightly.

‘I do not have the reading, my lord.’

‘Never mind. I recall the idea. You will need to slaughter some six hundred sheep for what I have in mind. Take care to cut them high on the neck, so that the skin is undamaged as it is peeled back. The wool must be shaved away, I believe. This work is delicate, Bayar, so give it to careful men and women in your command.’

Bayar looked blankly at him and Kublai sighed.

‘There is no harm in knowing a little history, general. We should not have to relearn every skill each generation. Not when the hard work has already been done. The idea is to sew up the holes in the skins, leaving just one near the neck. Strong men can blow into the skin, using tar or tree sap to seal the gaps. Do you understand? Have vats of both substances put to boil. I do not know which will work best. When they are tight with air, the skins will float, general. Bind them together in a frame of light poles and we will have rafts capable of carrying many men at a time.’ He paused to run calculations in his head, one thing Kublai could always do quickly.

‘With three rafts, say eighteen hundred sheepskins, we should be able to carry … twelve hundred warriors across the river at a time. In half a day, we could put some twenty thousand men on the opposite side. I will assume another half day to swim horses across, using the rafts to guide them. Yes, with ropes around their necks to help them swim against the current. A day in all, if there are no mishaps. How long will you need to put the rafts together?’

Bayar’s eyes widened as he saw the prince had lost his internal gaze and was once again focused on him.

‘Two days, my lord,’ he said with false confidence. He needed to impress the man who commanded him and Uriang-Khadai had already lost face. Bayar did not want to join him in incurring the displeasure of the khan’s own brother.

Kublai inclined his head as he thought.

‘Very well. This is your only task until it is complete. I will hold you to two days, general. Now, give the order to halt the column. Get scouts back into the area where the enemy wait. I want to know every detail of the river: the current, the banks, the terrain. Nothing is too trivial to bring to me. Have them report after the evening meal.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

Bayar swallowed nervously as he was dismissed. He had never heard of sheepskins being used in such a way. He was going to need help and he guessed that Uriang-Khadai was not the man to ask. As the horns sounded the halt and the tumans began to dismount and tend their horses, Bayar saw the cart that carried Kublai’s chief adviser, Yao Shu. The old Chin monk would know of such strange things as floating rafts, Bayar was almost certain.

As the sun came up the following day, Bayar had lost himself in the challenge of the task. The first bulbous hides had been prepared by the previous evening and carried by horse to the nearby river. With great ceremony the bobbing things had been placed on the waters, with volunteers to ride them over. Both men had sunk before they reached halfway and had to be dragged out by ropes attached to their waists. It seemed impossible, but according to Yao Shu it had certainly been done on a smaller scale. They tried rubbing oil into the skins as soon as the wool had been shaved off, then blowing and sealing them quickly, before leaving them to dry. As Bayar returned to the banks, he sent a silent prayer to the earth mother. He had gambled on the oil working and so had thousands of families preparing them. If the latest batch failed as well, he would not make the limit he had set himself. Standing in the morning gloom, Bayar looked across at Yao Shu, taking confidence from his calm. They stood together as two warriors tied ropes to themselves and lay across the floating skins, pushing off from the bank. Neither man could swim and they looked deeply uncomfortable as they paddled across the dark water.

At halfway, the current was strong and those holding the ropes on the bank found themselves shuffling downstream with the floating warriors. Even so, they splashed on and Bayar let out a whoop as he saw one of them stand and raise his arm from the opposite shallows, before clambering back on for the return trip. That went much faster, with the ropes pulled by many willing hands.

Bayar clapped Yao Shu on the back, feeling the bones beneath his colourful robe.

‘That will do,’ the general said, trying to conceal his relief. Uriang-Khadai was not there. The orlok had decided not to notice the sudden and massive labour that had overtaken the camp. While families worked the skins, oiling and sewing for all they were worth, the orlok had his men practising their archery and the cannon teams sweating to improve their speed with the guns. Bayar didn’t care. He found the work fascinating and on the evening of the second day he strode up to the ger erected for Kublai, hardly able to restrain his grin as he was allowed to enter.

‘It’s done, my lord,’ he said proudly.

To his relief, Kublai smiled, responding to the man’s evident satisfaction.

‘I never doubted it would be, general.’

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Hulegu was hot and thirsty as he rode north. The bulk of his army had gone on without him, ready to lay a siege around Baghdad. The centre of Islam was a powerful city on the Tigris river and he knew it would not fall quickly. The decision had been difficult, but he had thought his detour to the stronghold of Alamut would be a quick strike, no more onerous than crushing the head of a snake under his heel before going on with the real work. Instead, he suffered through hundreds of miles of the most hostile country he had ever seen. The sun fed a simmering anger that seemed to have been with him for weeks. He shaded his eyes as he stared up into the mountains, seeing snow on the peak of the one known as Solomon’s Seat. Somewhere in those remote crags was the most powerful fortress of the Ismaili Assassins.

The last towns and villages were long behind. His warriors rode across a burning plain, over a surface of loose rocks and scree that made many of the horses go lame. There was no grazing in such a place and Hulegu had lost time securing grain and water for the men and animals. Three tumans had originally come north with him, but he had sent one back to Baghdad and another to act as a relay for water when he saw the desolation of the terrain. He had no wish to see his best mounts die of thirst. Yet Hulegu was not deterred by the difficulties. If anything, they reassured him. No worthy goal should come easily, he told himself. Suffering created value.

In another age, Genghis had vowed to annihilate the Assassin cult. The great khan may even have thought he had done so, but they had survived like weeds in the rocks. As Hulegu looked over the single tuman, he sat straighter in the saddle, his pride obvious to them all. He had grown up with stories of Genghis. To meet one of the old enemies in the field was more than satisfying. He would give orders for their precious fortresses to be taken down and left in the valleys as fire-blackened blocks of stone. Only snakes and lizards would creep where the Assassins had walked, he vowed to himself. Mongke would not begrudge him the time he lost, Hulegu was sure. Baghdad would not fall in the next season. He had time to finish the personal matter between his family and the Moslems who inhabited Alamut.

Three guides led the tuman across the plain, recruited at knife-point from the last town they had passed. Hulegu had scouts and spies across the country feeding him information, but none of them had been able to give him the exact location of the fortress. Even the letters he had exchanged with the Assassins had gone to prominent merchants in cities, passed on by their own riders. His best information gave him only the range of mountains and nothing more. Even that had cost him a fortune in silver and a day spent torturing a man given up by his friends. It did not matter. Hulegu had always known he would have to come to the area to hunt them down. He questioned the guides constantly, but they only argued with each other in Arabic and shrugged, pointing always into the mountains. He had not seen another living soul for a long time when his scouts came riding in, their horses lathered in soapy sweat.

Hulegu frowned when he saw them making for him across the face of the ranks. From a distance, he could see the urgency in the way they sat their horses and he forced himself to keep the cold face as a matter of habit.

‘My lord, there are men ahead,’ the first scout said. He touched his right hand to his forehead, lips and heart in a gesture of respect. ‘Twelve miles, or a little more. I saw only eight horses and a silk awning, so I went closer, while my companion stayed out of range, ready to ride back to you.’

‘You spoke to them?’ Hulegu asked. Sweat was trickling down his back under his armour and his mood improved at the thought that he must be close if there were strangers gathered in the foothills to wait for him. The scout nodded.

‘The leader said he was Rukn-al-Din, lord. He claimed to have authority to speak for the Ismailis. He told me to say he has prepared a cool tent and drinks for you, my lord.’

Hulegu thought, wrinkling his brow. He had no particular desire to sit down with men who dealt in death. He could certainly not eat or drink with them. Equally, he could not let his warriors see he was afraid of so few.

‘Tell him I will come,’ he said. The scout cantered off across the lines to get a fresh horse and Hulegu summoned General Ilugei, nodding to the man as he approached.

‘They have made a meeting place, general. I want to surround it, so that they understand the consequences of treachery. I will walk in, but if I do not walk out, I want you to visit destruction on them. If I fall, Ilugei, you are to leave a mark in their histories to show their error. Do you understand? Not for me, but for those who come after me.’

Ilugei bowed his head.

‘Your will, my lord, but they do not know your face. Let me go in your place to see what they intend. If they plan to kill, let me be the one who draws them out.’

Hulegu thought about it for a moment, but then shook his head. He felt a worm of fear in his stomach and it made anger rise in him like the heat of the day. He could not stop his fear, but he could face it down.

‘Not this time, Ilugei. They rely on the fear they create. It is part of their power, perhaps even the heart of it. With just a few deaths each year, they create a terror in all men. I will not give them that, not from me.’

Rukn-al-Din sat in light robes and sipped at a drink cooled with ice. If the Mongol general did not show himself soon, the precious stock brought down from the peaks would all have melted. He glanced at the dripping white block sitting in a wooden bucket and gestured to have a few more shavings added to his drink. At least he could enjoy the luxury while he waited.

Around his small group, the Mongols were still riding, a wall of moving men and horses. For half a day, they had amused themselves with yells and mock screams while Rukn’s men ignored them completely. It took time to move ten thousand warriors into position and Rukn wondered if he would see the khan’s brother before sunset. There were no hidden forces for the Mongols to find, though he did not doubt they wasted their energies searching the hills all around him. For the thousandth time, he went over the offers he could make in his father’s name. It was not a long list. Gold and eventually a fortress, offered in such a way that it seemed to be drawn out of him. Rukn frowned, wishing his father were there to conduct the negotiation. The old man could sell his own shadow at noon, but Rukn knew there was a chance he would not survive the meeting. The Mongols were unpredictable, like angry children with swords. They could treat him with honour and courtesy, or simply cut his throat and move on with utter indifference. Despite the afternoon breeze and the cool drink, Rukn found he was perspiring after all. He did not know what to do if his offers were refused. No one had expected the Mongols to appear in the area, when good sources said they were heading to Baghdad, hundreds of miles away. Even the natural barrier of the dry plain seemed hardly to have slowed them and Rukn realised he was afraid. Before sunset, he could be just another body waiting to be reclaimed by the dust.

At first, he did not realise Hulegu had come. Rukn-al-Din was used to the grandeur of caliphs and expected at least some sort of retinue, some fanfare. Instead, one dusty warrior among many dismounted. Rukn watched him idly, noting the extraordinary breadth of the man’s shoulders as he stopped to talk to two or three others around him. The Mongols loved to wrestle, one of the few civilised things about them. Rukn-al-Din was wondering if he could interest the khan’s brother in a challenge from one of his own when he saw the man striding towards the tent. He rose, putting down his drink.

‘Salaam Alaikum. You are most welcome. I assume you are Prince Hulegu, brother to Mongke Khan. I am Rukn-al-Din, son to Suleiman-al-Din.’

His interpreter translated the Arabic into the general’s coarse tongue, making Hulegu glance at him. Rukn chose that moment to bow deeply. His father had ordered it, though Rukn resented even the idea. The warrior stared coldly at him and Rukn watched as his eyes flickered around the inside of the tent, taking in every detail. Hulegu had yet to enter the shaded awning. He stood on the threshold glaring in, while his ten thousand continued to make an appalling racket all around them. Dust drifted in wisps through the air, visible in the light of the setting sun. Rukn struggled to remain calm.

‘You must be thirsty, my lord,’ Rukn went on, hoping he was not overdoing the titles and honours. ‘Please sit in the shade. My men have brought ice to keep us cool.’

Hulegu grunted. He did not trust the weak-faced man standing before him, even to the point of revealing his understanding of the language. He thought of Ilugei’s offer to go to the meeting in his place and wondered if the stranger was who he claimed to be. Under the pressure of Rukn’s open-palm gesture, Hulegu unbent enough to enter. He frowned at the sight of a chair with its back to Rukn’s servants and snapped an order to his own men. One of the Mongol officers sauntered into the tent behind him, radiating danger with every movement. Rukn remained still as the chair was dragged across the carpeted floor against the silk wall. At last, Hulegu sat, waving away his own man and the servant with a tray of tall glasses.

‘I told you to destroy your fortresses,’ Hulegu said. He placed his hands on his knees, sitting straight and ready to leap up. ‘Has that been done?’

Rukn cleared his throat and sipped his drink as the interpreter spoke. He was not used to business being discussed so quickly and it unnerved him. He had hoped to begin a negotiation that would last all night and perhaps most of the next day, but under that cruel stare, he found himself babbling part of his promises in one rush, his father’s warnings melting away like the ice in his drink.

‘I have been told, lord, that we will begin the work on Shirat castle next spring. By the end of next year, it will be gone and you may tell your khan that we have obeyed you.’

He paused for translation, but at the end, Hulegu did not speak. Rukn struggled to find words to go on. His father had told him to make the Mongols understand it took months to bring down thousands of tons of cut stone. If they accepted the offer, the work would be delayed over and over again. There would be great energy and effort, but the castle would take years to demolish. Perhaps by then, the distant khan would have broken his neck, or Hulegu’s great army would have moved on to other targets for their bile.

‘Shirat is high in the mountains, lord. It is no easy task to bring down something that has stood for millennia. Yet we understand that you will want to report success to the khan, your brother. We have prepared gifts for him, gold and jewels to fill a city.’ For the first time, he saw a spark of interest in Hulegu’s eyes and was partly reassured.

‘Show me,’ Hulegu said, his words translated in a single sound from the interpreter.

‘My lord, they are not here. You and I answer to more powerful men. I am merely an emissary for my father, as you speak for your khan. Yet I have been told to offer you four thousand finger bars of gold as well as dinar coins to fill two chests.’ Even saying the words made fresh sweat break out for Rukn-al-Din. The amounts were vast, enough to found a small city. The Mongol merely stared at him as the interpreter droned on.

‘You do accept tribute from your allies?’ Rukn said, pressing him. Hulegu waited patiently for the translation to finish.

‘No. We accept tribute from those who serve us,’ Hulegu replied. ‘You have spoken, Rukn-al-Din. You have said what you have been told to say. Now listen to me.’ He paused while the interpreter caught up, watching Rukn closely all the time. ‘My concern is the centre of Islam, the city of Baghdad. I will take that place, do you understand?’

Rukn nodded uncomfortably as he heard the words.

‘In comparison to that, your father and your sect mean little to me. For the honour of my grandfather, I would have been content to see them made into ashes, but you have offered me gold and friendship. Very well, I will accept twice the sum in gold and the destruction of two of your fortresses. I will accept an oath of allegiance to me and to my family.’ He let the translator reach the end, so that he could watch Rukn-al-Din’s reaction. ‘But I will not give you my word. As you say, we both have those to whom we must answer. When I return to my brother, he will ask if I spoke to this Suleiman. Nothing else will do, do you understand? There can be peace between our families, but only when I have spoken to Suleiman. Take me to Alamut, that I may meet with him.’

Rukn struggled not to show his delight. He had been afraid the Mongol would refuse everything he offered, perhaps even to the point of killing him in his tent. In his pleasure, a tendril of suspicion entered. The Mongol leader might see an advantage in getting his army close to the ancient stronghold. Rukn did not know if the man’s guides could even find it on their own. He thought of the impregnable fortress, with its single path across the sheer rock face. Let them come and stare up at it. Their catapults and cannon would not reach such a height. They could roar and bluster for a hundred years at the foot of the peak and never get in.

‘I will do as you say, my lord. I will send word ahead of us and you will be welcomed as a friend and ally.’ His eyes grew cunning and he shook his head ruefully. ‘As for the gold, I do not think there is that much in all the world. If you will accept the first part as a gift, I’m certain the rest could be brought to you each year in tribute.’

Hulegu smiled for the first time. He did not think the young man had realised yet that his life was in Hulegu’s hands.

Suleiman breathed deeply, enjoying the scent of sheep droppings in the high, clear air. The tiny meadow on the far side of Alamut was a miracle of rare device, a testament to the skill and foresight of his ancestors. Small trees gave shade to the herd and Suleiman often came there when he needed to think in peace. The meadow was barely two acres in all, enough to support only a dozen sheep and six goats. They were fat and glossy in the sunshine, their constant bleating a balm to his soul. Some of them came close at the sight of him, standing without fear as they hoped for food. He smiled, showing them empty hands. At heart, he had always thought of himself as a shepherd, to men as well as animals.

He strolled across the thick turf until he reached the sheer rock on one side and ran his fingers along it. There was a small hut there, with bags of feed for the winter and grey blocks of salt for the animals to lick. He checked the bags carefully, wary of the mould that could be poisonous to his precious flock. For a time he lost himself carrying the sacks into the light and checking the contents. In such a place, it was difficult to believe he faced the utter annihilation of his clan.

It was hard to bargain with those who seemed to desire only his destruction. Suleiman hoped his son would come back with something, but he doubted it. The Mongol leader would insist on seeing Alamut and once he had found his way through the labyrinth of valleys and paths, he would lay his siege and begin to starve them out. Suleiman looked ruefully over his small field. The animals would not support his people for long. Rarely were there more than sixty or seventy men in the stronghold of Alamut, perhaps as many again in servants. It had always been a small community, unable to survive without the payments in gold from their work. He could not resist the Mongols with force, any more than his father had managed against Genghis. Suleiman grimaced to himself as he realised he had no choices left. Three of his men were out in the world, with payments expected. Silently, he listed the merchants they had been told to kill. He would not hear from them again until their work was done. Eighteen others were at the peak of fitness in Alamut, trained in the methods of silent murder. It was tempting to send them all out, but the reality was that they would only get in each other’s way. Their training had never prepared them for any kind of mass assault. Everything they had been taught was focused on an unseen approach and a single blow, either from the hand or a weapon. In his younger days, Suleiman had dispatched a wealthy merchant simply by drugging his wine, then holding his mouth and nose shut while he slept. There had been no mark on the body and it was still considered a near-perfect example of the craft. He sighed in memory of happier times. The Mongols had no respect for tradition and, it seemed, no fear of the retribution they might face. His Assassins would have to be sent against the khan himself, perhaps while Alamut endured the siege to come. Suleiman did not doubt the khan’s anger if his own brother fell, no matter how they made it look. The old man calculated journey times in his head, trying to work out the best arrangement to take them both. He still hoped they could be bribed or fooled, but his role as shepherd to his flock meant he had to plan for all possibilities.

Lost in his thoughts, Suleiman did not see Hasan step out from the shadow of the little hut. Suleiman was looking out across the meadow, shading his eyes against the setting sun. The younger man suddenly darted forward and swung a flat stone against the side of his head. It struck with a crack and Suleiman cried out in surprise and pain. He staggered sideways, dropping almost into a crouch as his vision blurred. He thought a stone must have fallen from the cliffs above and he was dazedly feeling his face for blood when Hasan struck again, knocking him down.

Suleiman could taste the blood running into his throat from his broken mouth. He looked up in dazed astonishment, unable to understand what was happening. When he recognised Hasan standing there, his gaze dropped to the red-smeared stone the young man still held.

‘Why, my son? Why would you do this? Have I not been a father to you?’ he said, half-choking. He saw Hasan was in the grip of surging emotions, panting like a dog left in the sun. He looked appalled at what he had done, and as the world stopped spinning, Suleiman raised a hand to him.

‘Help me to my feet, Hasan,’ he said gently.

The young man came forward and for a moment Suleiman thought he would do as he was told. At the last instant, Hasan raised the stone again and brought it down in a great blow on Suleiman’s forehead, breaking the dome of his skull. He knew nothing more and did not hear the fool run weeping back into the fortress.

Hulegu had to admit he was impressed by Alamut. The fortress was built of a different stone to the mountains all around them. He could hardly imagine the labour involved in transporting every block up to the original cleft in the rocks, widening that place with hammers and chisels, then building stone upon stone until it seemed to have grown from the landscape.

He raised his head to take it in, then craned further and further back. At the best elevation, his cannons would merely graze the surface, sending their deadly missiles skipping up the walls without force. He had nothing else that could even reach the stronghold from the valley floor and his eyes picked out a single track running up the face. There would be no assault on the gates. He doubted more than two men could stand before them without someone pitching to his death thousands of feet below.

It had taken many days to reach the fortress and Hulegu knew he would have been hard-pressed to find it without Rukn-al-Din. His ten thousand warriors could presumably have covered every valley and dead end in the range, but it would have taken months. His three guides seemed as awed as the Mongols, and Hulegu suspected only terror had made them promise a way in.

There had been one slight disagreement with Rukn-al-Din since their first meeting. The younger man had pressed for just an honour guard to accompany Hulegu on the last stretch. Hulegu smiled again at the thought. To bargain, a man needed some advantage and Rukn had none. Hulegu had merely described the many ways a man could be tortured for the information he needed and Rukn had fallen silent. He no longer rode proudly, chattering to the men around him. He and his companions had realised they were little more than prisoners, for all the fine promises that had been made.

Yet Alamut itself dented Hulegu’s confidence for the first time. With his southern army descending on Baghdad, he did not want to lay a siege that might take two years or longer to end. As he reached the foot of the path, he could see there were men wending their way down to him, presumably carrying messages from Rukn’s father. Hulegu eyed the steep steps with irritation and, on impulse, sent one of his men riding up. He had some vague hope that the small Mongol ponies could keep their footing. They had known mountains in the homeland and they were nimble animals.

Hulegu watched with interest as the lone rider walked his mount up to the first bend, hundreds of feet above their heads. He heard his officers whisper bets to each other and then one of them cursed and Hulegu shaded his eyes to look up.

The horse and rider struck the ground just moments later, the crash echoing from the hills all around. Neither survived the fall and Hulegu cursed under his breath as Ilugei cheerfully collected silver coins from the other officers.

The men coming down had paused, peering over the edge and gesturing to each other before going on. When they finally made it to the flat ground, both were stained in sweat and dust. They made hurried bows to the Mongol officers, their eyes seeking out Rukn-al-Din. Hulegu dismounted and walked over to them as they bowed to him.

‘Master, your father is dead,’ he heard one of them say. Rukn gave a great cry of pain and sorrow and Hulegu chuckled.

‘It seems I have the new master of Alamut to take me up the path, Rukn-al-Din. My men will lead the way. Stay close to me. I do not want you falling to your death in this time of grief.’

Rukn-al-Din gaped at him, dull-eyed in despair. His shoulders slumped at Hulegu’s words and he walked almost in a daze, following the first of the men who would make their way up the path to the fortress high above.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The sun set in streaks of gold and red as Kublai halted his great host on the banks of the river. He had scouted the area and drawn them all to a halt in sight of the ford on his maps. Across the wide stretch of dark water, the Sung commander waited expectantly. The man knew Kublai would have to cross the river at some point, perhaps even that night. In the evening gloom, Kublai grinned at the sight of Sung columns manoeuvring subtly closer to the ford, ready for whatever assault he planned. The two vast armies stared at each other across a rushing barrier. Kublai could imagine the confusion in their command tents as the Mongol tumans failed to attack. He doubted they were getting much sleep.

Before the last light had gone, Kublai’s gun teams finished their preparations, marking sites and placing shuttered lamps on poles. In the night, before the moon rose, the cannons were heaved forward to the marked positions, pushed in silence by dozens of straining volunteers. At the same time, the main force moved further back, away from the river. Kublai had seen no sign of similar work going on in the Sung camp, but he did not want to be surprised by some enterprising officer with the same idea. For once, his warriors would spend the night in the saddle or on the grass by their horses. The families were a mile further away from the river, well clear of danger. Kublai wondered what Chabi was doing at that moment. She had known tonight would be dangerous for him, but she’d shown no fear at all, as if there wasn’t a man alive who could trouble her husband. He knew her well enough to sense the performance in it, but even so he found it oddly reassuring. The thought of telling his wife and son he had failed was a better motivation than anything Mongke could do to him.

The moon rose slowly and Kublai stood and watched it, rubbing his damp palms down his armour and wishing he wore a lighter robe. Even the nights were warm so far to the south and he was never comfortable. His cannons were covered by loose branches to confuse their shapes and he did not think the enemy would be able to see what he had done. On its own, it would be only a gesture at best, a brief taste of fear in the night before they pulled back and restored order. A young commander might have made the decision, intending to kill a few and make the enemy run about for a while. Kublai chuckled to himself. He hoped for more. Timing was going to be important and he strained his eyes in the darkness, looking for a sign. He had not spoken to Uriang-Khadai for some days, beyond the most basic courtesies. The man clearly resented the authority Kublai had exercised over him, suddenly a reality rather than an empty formality. Kublai sensed Uriang-Khadai was holding himself in check, waiting for some error to be made. The battle to come was important in many ways and the stakes worried him. Not only did he have to break the Sung army against him, but he also had to show his own generals that he was fit to lead. Kublai felt a headache begin behind his eyes and considered visiting a shaman for willow-bark powder or myrtle leaves. No, he dared not be out of position when the time came.

Bayar watched the moon rise and began a slow trot. By his best reckoning, he was less than ten miles north of the Sung army, on the other side of the river. In the end, he and Kublai had agreed to lose two more days to ferry enough men across on the sheepskin rafts. Three tumans had made the crossing, with their horses and weapons taking most of the time. The rafts worked and Bayar sensed the anticipation in the ranks. With just a little luck, the Sung would have no idea they had even left Kublai’s army. Bayar stepped up the pace, judging the speed he needed to cover the ground and still keep the horses fresh. Ten miles was not far for the Mongolian ponies. They could cover it before the moon reached its zenith and at the end he could still order a gallop and be answered.

The ground was firm away from the river and there were few obstacles, though no horsemen liked riding at night, regardless of the conditions. There would be falls and casualties, yet Bayar had his orders and he was cheerful. No one loved a surprise attack more than his people. The very idea filled him with glee. It did not hurt that Uriang-Khadai was still on Kublai’s side of the river. The orlok had been scornful of the great rafts and Bayar was pleased to be away from his baleful gaze for once. He sensed a camaraderie with Kublai that he had not expected. The khan’s brother was out of his depth in many ways, facing one of the most powerful enemies in the nation’s history. Bayar smiled as he rode. He did not intend to let him down.

In the distance, Kublai saw a bright spark sear a trail across the sky. From so far away, it was little more than a needle of light that vanished almost as soon as it appeared. He had feared he would miss the sign and tried to relax his cramped muscles, held tight for too long. Bayar was there, with a Chin firework he had lit and thrown into the air from the saddle. As Kublai turned to give his orders, another spark appeared, in case the first one had been missed. High-pitched voices began to roar confused orders on the other side of the river.

‘Begin firing on my signal,’ Kublai shouted. He dismounted to attend to his own device, a long tube of black powder resting in an iron cradle. He brought a shuttered lamp close and lit the taper from it, standing back as it fizzed and sputtered before rising into the air in a great whoosh of light.

The cannon teams had been waiting patiently for their moment and as they saw the signal the great iron weapons began to sound, cracking thunder across the river. The flashes lit up both banks for the briefest of moments, leaving ghosts on the vision of all those who stared into the blackness. They could not see where the balls landed, but distant screams made the gun teams laugh as they sponged down the barrels and reloaded, jamming in bags of black powder and fitting the hollow reeds to the touch-holes. The mouths of the cannon erupted in belches of flame, but the balls themselves were invisible as they soared across the water. Kublai noted the best rates of fire and wondered how it could be improved. There was just too long a gap between each shot, but he had the best part of a hundred heavy cannon lined up on the banks, all he could bring to bear on the Sung positions. The barrage would surely be devastating. He could imagine the flashes of light and cracks from the Sung perspective, followed by the whistle of stone balls ripping through the camp. Many of the shot balls disintegrated at the moment of firing, reducing their range, but sending razor shards along the firing path.

On any other night, the Sung soldiers would have pulled back quickly. Kublai wished he could listen for Bayar’s tumans, but the noise was too great as the shots rippled on and on. He waited as long as he dared, then sent a second rocket up into the night sky. The thunder died as the teams saw it, though a last few cracks sounded as they got off one final shot. After the noise, the night was suddenly silent and the darkness was absolute. Kublai strained to hear. Far away, there was a new noise, growing steadily. He laughed aloud as he recognised the sound of Mongol drummer boys, beating their own thunder in the darkness across the river.

Bayar had never known a battle at night. He had seen the signal rocket and then watched in amazement as the river bank was lit in flashes of gold, a rolling wave of destruction. He had once seen a dry lightning storm, with the thick air lit at intervals by flashes. This was like that, but each crack of light and sound revealed chaos in the Sung camp. He had to trust that Kublai would stop the barrage before Bayar’s warriors were among them. The spikes of light gave him the arrow range and he began to empty his quiver of thirty arrows, whipping them out and onto the string almost without thought. He could not aim with only the flashes to guide him, but he had a wide charging line of thousands of men and the arrows poured out of them. He lost count of the shafts he had shot and it was only when his grasping fingers closed on nothing that he cursed and hooked the bow to his saddle. Bayar drew his sword and the action was copied all along the line.

The Sung had heard them coming, but dead men lay everywhere among their packed ranks. Kublai had been far more successful than he had known. The Sung soldiers had clustered on the river banks, pressing close to repel the night river-crossing they thought would come. Into that mass of waiting men, the cannonballs had torn red paths. Thousands had been killed. The forming lines dissolved in sheer panic as men ran from the terrible unseen death that was still cutting through their camp. They ran to get out of range, some of them dropping their shields and swords and pelting away.

Out of the darkness, the arrows of Bayar’s tumans came slicing and tearing into them. The Sung soldiers were caught between jaws and they pushed and spun in a great crush as they tried to find a clear path out of the destruction. Bayar’s first lines hit a rabble of soldiers, cutting into them at full speed. Horses and men crashed together and Bayar’s own mount went down as it struck a knot of soldiers, smashing them apart. He fell hard and rolled over someone who yelled in his ear. The cannon-fire ceased at that moment and in the darkness Bayar found himself wrestling with a man he could not see. He had lost his sword, but his fists were armoured to the knuckles and he pounded the dark figure over and over until it was still.

The Sung army was in complete disarray. Bayar swore as someone else knocked into him, but the man picked himself up and ran on. They had no idea of the size of the force spearing into them from the dark night and the Sung officers had lost control. The tumans stayed together in their ranks, walking their horses onward together and killing anything in their way.

In the moonlight, Bayar saw a pony and rider loom in front of him. He shouted before the raised sword could come down.

‘Give me your horse! And if you cut me, I’ll have your ears.’

The warrior dismounted immediately, handing over the reins. Another rank was already upon them and once again Bayar had to shout to be recognised. He realised he could not leave the warrior to be cut down by his own men, so had him jump up behind. The pony snorted at the extra weight and Bayar calmed it with a rub of the ears before he trotted to the rank ahead. They spread across the Sung camp and Bayar saw that a few of the men had snatched lamps from sentry poles and used them to set fire to the tents and carts. The light of the flames began to restore his sense of the battlefield and what he saw amazed and delighted him. The Sung army was running and he rode over a carpet of the dead, thousands upon thousands of them. The ranks ahead were still killing and it was more to blood those behind than to save their sword arms that he bellowed orders to rotate the front ranks.

His orders were answered instantly by signal horns. The first five ranks halted and the next moved up, Bayar among them. He passed panting men, spattered in the blood of their enemies. They sat bowed over their saddle horns, resting their aching sword arms on the high pommel. Many of them called out to the ranks passing them, asking where they had been while the real work was being done. Their spirits were high and Bayar chuckled as he went through. The flame-light was increasing as more and more tents were set on fire. Ahead, he could see a mass of men, pressing desperately to get away from the dark line of horses. Bayar saw a pony without a rider and stopped briefly to let his unknown companion take the mount. There was a body nearby and he was delighted to find a quiver with half a dozen shafts. Jumping down briefly, he flipped the body over and took a long knife from the ground, though he could not find a sword. His rank had gone on without him and he trotted to keep up as the killing began again.

Kublai waited in an agony of suspense. He could hear the sounds of battle out there in the dark, the crash and scream of men and animals being killed. He had no way of knowing how Bayar was doing and wished for light as he had never wished for anything before. He wondered if the rockets could be fired together to light up a battlefield, but he had only a small store. The idea was tempting, however. It was one more thing to remember for the future.

‘That’s long enough,’ he said, almost to himself. He took another rocket from a roll of oilcloth and placed it in its cradle, pointing to the sky. As it lifted, it made a high whistling sound, similar to the shaped arrowhead the Mongols sometimes used. The tumans on his side of the river were ready for the signal and they began to ride to the ford. If the Sung still held their side, the tumans would be crossing without proper cover. His archers would send a hail across the banks, but in the darkness it would be impossible to aim. Kublai drew his sword, preferring to have its comforting weight in his hand.

His horse hit the waters of the fording place in the midst of thousands of others, all trying to make the crossing at a canter. Kublai felt his horse lurch into a hole and quickly sheathed his sword again rather than lose it. He needed both hands and he felt his cheeks grow hot with embarrassment as he flailed about.

His horse was snorting and whinnying as it clambered up the far bank and plunged on with the rest. Kublai could not have controlled the animal if he’d wanted to and he found himself racing headlong towards the sounds of battle. All the plans he had made dissolved in confusion as he lost track of the position of the tumans, or even which way he was going. In the glow of burning tents, he could see a great mass of men. He only hoped he was not about to charge Bayar’s tumans. There was no point listening for Mongol voices or even the drummer boys. The noise of horses around him drowned all that out and he had somehow managed to get water in his ear during the crossing, so that he was deaf on one side.

Two hundred yards ahead of him, the first ranks off the river ford met the Sung soldiers streaming away from Bayar’s tumans. The Mongol warriors had not strung their bows for the crossing and they barely had time to draw swords before the forces crashed together. Kublai could not halt or turn aside. Held in the press of moving horses, he was moved inexorably forward. He tapped the side of his head to clear his ear and smelled blood strongly on the air. He was beginning to realise that, for all the benefits of a surprise night attack, the danger was complete chaos on both sides. He heard yelling voices ahead and the unmistakable sound of Mongol warriors cheering in triumph. Kublai tried to gauge how much of the night was left by the position of the moon and wondered vaguely where Uriang-Khadai had gone. He hadn’t seen his orlok since the first round of cannon-fire. The cheering intensified and he headed towards it, helped by the light of burning tents, the fire beginning to spread right across the river plain.

Kublai drew to a halt in the light of three burning carts piled against each other. With a rush of relief, he saw Bayar there, shouting commands and bringing some sense of order. When he saw Kublai, Bayar grinned and rode over to him.

‘Half of them have surrendered, at least,’ Bayar said. He stank of blood and fire, but he was jubilant. Kublai forced the cold face, remembering suddenly that he was meant to be a figure of distant and terrifying authority. Bayar didn’t seem to notice.

‘We’ve broken the back of their best regiments,’ Bayar went on, ‘and those that haven’t run have thrown down their weapons. Until the sun comes up, I won’t know the details, but I don’t think they’ll counter-attack tonight. You have the victory, my lord.’

Kublai sheathed his sword, still unblooded. He endured a sense of unreality as he stared around at the piles of dead men. It had worked, but his mind filled with a dozen things they could have done differently.

‘I want you to look into using signal rockets to light a battlefield,’ he said.

Bayar looked at him strangely. He saw a young man sitting with his hands relaxed on the pommel, his leggings soaked. As Kublai stared around him with interest, Bayar nodded.

‘Very well, my lord. I’ll start testing them tomorrow. I should finish herding the prisoners. We’re having to use their own clothes torn into strips to bind them.’

‘Yes, yes of course,’ Kublai replied. He looked to the east, but there was no sign of dawn.

A thought struck him and he smiled in anticipation as he spoke again.

‘Send Orlok Uriang-Khadai to me. I would like to hear his assessment of the victory.’

Bayar smothered his own smile as he dipped his head.

‘Your will, my lord. I’ll send him to you as soon as I find him.’

The sun rose on a scene of complete devastation. In his imagination, Kublai could only compare it to the description he had read of the battle of Badger’s Mouth in northern Chin lands. Flies had gathered in their millions and there were too many dead soldiers to consider burying or even burning them. They could only be left behind for the sun to rot and dry.

For a time, dawn had brought some excitement as the remaining Sung regiments were hunted down and the Mongol families crossed the river with slow care. Tumans rode out with fresh quivers and overhauled the scattered enemy before the sun was fully up. Thousands more were forcibly returned to the river, stripped of weapons and armour, to be bound with the rest. Mongol women and children walked among them, come to see the fearsome men their husbands, brothers and fathers had defeated.

Yao Shu had remained behind in the main camp during the battle. He crossed the ford with the families when there was enough light to ride without falling in. By noon, he was at Kublai’s ger, set up at his order on the battle side. Chabi was already there, her eyes full of concern for her exhausted husband. She fussed around him, laying out fresh clothes and making enough food to feed whoever might come to speak with Kublai. Yao Shu nodded to her as he accepted a bowl of some stew and ate quickly rather than give offence. She watched until he had finished it all. Yao Shu sat on a low bed with scrolls of vellum waiting to be read to the khan and he could do nothing, say nothing, until he was given permission. Even after a battle, the rules of ger courtesy held firm.

Zhenjin entered at a run, skidding slightly as he came to a halt, his eyes large. Yao Shu smiled at the boy.

‘There are so many prisoners!’ Zhenjin said. ‘How did you beat them, father? I saw flashes and thunder all night. I didn’t sleep at all.’

‘He did sleep,’ Chabi murmured. ‘He snores like his father.’

Zhenjin turned a look of scorn on his mother.

‘I was too excited to sleep. I saw a man with his head cut off! How did we beat so many?’

‘Planning,’ Kublai replied. ‘Better plans and better men, Zhenjin. Ask Uriang-Khadai how we did it. He will tell you.’

The little boy looked up at his father in awe, but he shook his head.

‘He doesn’t like me to speak to him. He says I ask too many questions.’

‘You do,’ Chabi said. ‘Take a bowl and find somewhere else to eat it. Your father needs to speak to many of his men.’

‘I want to listen,’ the boy almost wailed. ‘I’ll be quiet, I promise.’

Chabi smacked his head and pressed a bowl into his hand. Zhenjin left with a furious glare that she ignored completely.

Kublai sat down and accepted his own bowl, finishing it quickly. When he was ready, Yao Shu read him the tallies of dead and maimed as well as the loot they had taken, his voice droning on in the thick air. After a time, Kublai waved him to a stop. His eyes felt gritty and swollen and his voice was hoarse.

‘Enough. I’m not taking it in. Come back in the evening, when I’ve rested.’

Yao Shu rose and bowed. He had trained Kublai from boyhood and he was uncertain how to show his pride in him. They had destroyed an army twice as large, on foreign ground. The news was already heading back to Karakorum with the fastest scouts. They would race to the yam lines in Chin territory and then the letters would move even faster, reaching Karakorum in just a few weeks. Yao Shu paused at the door to the ger.

‘Orlok Uriang-Khadai is waiting for your word on the prisoners, my lord. We have …’ He consulted a scroll thick with tally marks, holding it at the full extension of his arm so he could read it. ‘Forty-two thousand, seven hundred, many of them wounded.’

Kublai winced at the figure and rubbed his eyes.

‘Feed them with their own supplies. I’ll decide what to do with them …’ He broke off as Zhenjin re-entered the ger. The boy’s face was incredibly pale and he was panting.

‘What is it?’ Chabi asked. Zhenjin only looked at her.

‘Well, boy? What is it?’ Kublai said. He reached out and rubbed his son’s hair. The action seemed to break his trance and Zhenjin spoke as if gulping words between ragged breaths.

‘They’re killing the prisoners,’ Zhenjin said. He looked ill and his eyes strayed to the bucket by the door as if he might need it.

Kublai cursed. He had given no such order. Without another word, he pushed past his son and went outside. General Bayar was there, striding towards the ger. He looked relieved to see Kublai. At a gesture, servants brought horses and both men mounted quickly, trotting away through the camp.

Yao Shu eyed his own horse with misgiving. He had never been much of a rider, but Kublai and Bayar were already gone. Zhenjin came out of the ger and pelted off after them without looking back. Sighing, the old man called a young warrior across to help him mount.

Kublai began to pass ranks of bound prisoners long before he saw Uriang-Khadai. In lines that vanished into the distance, forty thousand men knelt on the ground with their heads down, waiting. Some of them talked in low tones or looked up as he passed, but for the most part, they were dull-eyed, their misery and defeat clear in their faces.

Kublai cursed under his breath as he saw the orlok gesturing to a group of young warriors. There were dozens of headless bodies in neat rows already and as Kublai rode closer, he saw the swords swing and more men fall to the ground. He could hear a low moan of terror from those closest to them and the sound filled him with rage. He checked himself as Uriang-Khadai looked up. He could not humiliate his orlok in front of the men, no matter how much he wanted to.

‘I have not given an order for the prisoners to be slaughtered,’ he said. Kublai remained in the saddle deliberately, so that he could look down at the man.

‘I did not want to trouble you with every detail, my lord,’ Uriang-Khadai said. He looked faintly puzzled, as if he could not understand why the khan’s brother should interrupt him in his duties. Kublai felt his anger rise and strangled it again.

‘Forty thousand men is not a detail, orlok. They have surrendered to me and their lives are now mine to protect.’

Uriang-Khadai clasped his hands behind his back, his mouth tightening.

‘My lord, there are too many. You surely can’t allow them all to walk away? We will be facing them again …’

‘I have told you my decision, orlok. Have them fed and have their wounded looked at. Then release them. After that, I will see you in my ger. That is all.’

Uriang-Khadai stood in silence while he digested the news. After a moment too long, he bowed his head, just ahead of Kublai relieving him of his authority in a rage.

‘Your will, my lord,’ the orlok said. ‘I apologise if I have given offence.’

Kublai ignored him. Yao Shu and Bayar had both arrived and he glanced at Yao Shu before speaking again. In fluent Mandarin, then broken Cantonese, Kublai addressed the prisoners within earshot.

‘You will be allowed to live and return home. Pass the word. Take news of this battle with you and tell whoever will listen that you were treated with mercy. You are subjects of the great khan and under my protection.’

Yao Shu nodded to him in satisfaction as Kublai turned his horse and dug in his heels. He could feel Uriang-Khadai’s glare on his back for a long way, but it did not matter. He had plans for the Sung cities, plans that could not begin with a slaughter of unarmed men.

On his way back to the ger, he saw his son running along, head down and puffing. Kublai reined in and reached down. Zhenjin took the arm and his father swept him up into the saddle behind him. They rode on together and after a time Kublai felt his son shift uncomfortably. Zhenjin had seen horrors that day. Kublai reached behind him and patted the boy’s leg.

‘Did you stop them killing the men?’ Zhenjin asked in a small voice.

‘Yes. Yes, I stopped them,’ Kublai replied. He felt the weight increase against his back as his son relaxed.

Alamut was a place of quiet and calm. In his life, Hulegu had found little to love in cities, but there was something about the spartan fortress that appealed to him. He was surprised to feel a pang of regret at the idea that he must destroy it. He stood on the highest wall in the sunlight and looked down across a landscape of mountains, stretching many miles into the distance. He even wondered briefly if he could leave a hundred families to keep the place for the khan, but it was just a fantasy. He had seen the tiny meadow behind the main buildings. The animals there could not support more than a few. The fortress was so completely isolated that he could not imagine trade ever taking place, or anything in the way of contact with the world. Alamut guarded no pass, held no strategic worth. It had been the perfect spot for the Assassins, but it was not suited to anything else.

As he walked on, Hulegu stepped over the body of a young woman, careful not to tread in the pool of sticky blood around her head. He looked down and frowned. She had been beautiful and he assumed the archer who had put a shaft into her throat had done so from a distance. It was a waste.

It had taken a day to get two hundred men into the fortress, each warrior trudging up the narrow path in single file, then holding the door for the next. Rukn-al-Din could do nothing and he had not had the courage to throw himself off the cliff. Not that they would have let him, but it would have been a fine thing to attempt. They had spread into Alamut’s rooms and corridors with calm deliberation and the Ismaili Assassins had only stood and watched, still looking to Rukn-al-Din for authority. When the killing began, they scattered, trying to protect their families. Hulegu smiled at the memory. His warriors had scoured the castle, room by room, floor by floor, stabbing and shooting anything that moved. For a time, a group of the Assassins had blockaded themselves into a room, but the door fell to axes and they were overwhelmed. Others had fought. Hulegu looked over the battlements into a courtyard far below, seeing the bodies of his men laid out. Thirty-six of them had been killed, a higher toll than he might have expected. Most of those had died from poisoned blades, when they would otherwise have survived with a gash. By dawn, only Rukn-al-Din was still alive, sitting in the courtyard in dull despair.

It was time to finish it, Hulegu realised. He would have to leave men behind, but to destroy rather than to live. It would take months for them to break down the fortress, and he could not wait while Baghdad resisted his army. It had been a risk, even a luxury, to seek out the Assassins, but he could not regret it. For a short time, he had walked in the steps of Genghis.

It took an age to descend the stone stairs running inside the walls. Hulegu finally came out into the bright sunshine, blinking after the gloom. Rukn-al-Din was sitting with his knees drawn up into his arms, his eyes red. As Hulegu came out he looked up and swallowed nervously, certain he was about to die.

‘Stand up,’ Hulegu said to him.

One of his warriors kicked the man hard and Rukn clambered to his feet, swaying slightly from exhaustion. He had lost everything.

‘I will be leaving men here to destroy the fortress, stone by stone,’ Hulegu said. ‘I cannot stay longer. In fact, I should not have taken so much time to come here. When I return this way, I hope there will be a chance to visit the other fortresses your father controlled.’ He smiled, enjoying the utter defeat of an enemy in his power. ‘Who knows? Only rats live on in Alamut and we will burn them out when it falls.’

‘You have what you wanted,’ Rukn said hoarsely. ‘You could let me go.’

‘We do not shed the blood of royalty,’ Hulegu replied. ‘It was a rule of my grandfather and I honour it.’ He saw a gleam of hope come into Rukn’s eyes. The death of his father had broken the young man. He had said nothing while the Mongols tore through Alamut, hoping that they would spare him. He raised his head.

‘I am to live?’ he said.

Hulegu laughed. ‘Did I not say I honour the great khan? No blade will cut you, no arrow will enter your flesh.’ Hulegu turned to the warriors around Rukn-al-Din. ‘Hold him down.’

The young man cried out as they laid hands on him, but there were too many and he could not resist. They took his arms and legs and stretched them out, so that he lay helpless. He looked up and saw only bright malice in the Mongol general.

Hulegu kicked Rukn in the ribs as hard as he could. He heard them crack over Rukn’s scream. Twice more he kicked out, feeling the ribs give way.

‘You should have cut your own throat,’ Hulegu told him as Rukn-al-Din panted in agony. ‘How can I respect a man who wouldn’t even do that for his people?’ He nodded to a warrior and the man began to stamp on the broken chest. Hulegu watched for a time, then walked away, satisfied.