Belgutei had said to Kasar: “The coldness between our lord and his anda is done and gone. Henceforth, nothing shall rise between them.”
Kasar had replied, with a sour, jealous expression on his broad and simple face: “Jamuga hath no blood, but only milk in his veins, albeit he is valiant. But it is the valor of stone, which resisteth because it can do nothing else.”
Belgutei had remained in thoughtful silence for some moments, and then he had said in the soft voice of a man who reflects:
“Men without blood are men without true loyalty.”
Kasar, who out of his jealousy was inclined to listen to anything against Jamuga, exclaimed: “Thou dost not think he would betray our lord in the smallest thing?”
And again Belgutei affected to meditate. But he saw the face of his dead brother, Bektor. And then he replied: “Jamuga is ambitious.”
He never said this to any one else, for he knew they would laugh in his face, at least so would laugh the nokud. But he had already said this to Houlun and Bortei, recognizing that where there is envy and dislike, there is always the eager willingness to believe. Now, he had said this to another such a one, knowing that jealousy is the handmaid of violence.
Kasar had gritted his teeth, and had said between them: “Let me suspect him in the slightest thing, and I shall cut him down with mine own hand!” And his simple face had become contorted with feverish hatred.
Before they slept, Jamuga had cleansed and anointed Temujin’s wound. He had hands as deft and delicate as a woman’s, and Temujin hardly felt any pain. For Jamuga was endowed with the gift of healing. There was some magic in his touch. After he had done, Temujin had smiled up in his face, as one who is greatly moved.
“The love and bodies of women are precious as rich perfume, Jamuga. But the love between a man and his friend surpasseth the things of the flesh.”
Jamuga had paused only an instant in his ministrations. His head was bent. Finally he said in a strange, quiet voice: “I have never forgotten that, Temujin. I ask thee only to remember.”
A sudden dark color had risen into Temujin’s cheeks, but he had not replied. For a while he appeared disturbed. But later he had lifted the blanket on his bed, and had said, looking at Jamuga only, though his other nokud were there:
“As we slept under the shadow of the Mountain Burkan, let us sleep this night, for thou didst save my life again.”
And that night Jamuga felt the soreness leave his heart, not entirely, but in a large measure. Temujin slept, but he did not. For, as he lay there, he thought: I must not sleep this night, but be happy, for my spirit doth tell me that never again shall I be flesh of his flesh as I am now.”
He could rejoice, for Temujin had not gone to his mother, nor his wife, nor his uncle. He had gone only to his friend for ministrations.
But even while Jamuga lay unsleeping in the darkness, thinking his thoughts, sadness like the weight of a stone pressed down upon him.
The next morning Temujin appeared before the ranks of his victorious warriors, and received their triumphant and loving ovation. Beside him stood Jamuga Sechen, silent and wan as always, and behind him stood his chief nokud, and behind them, the array of his other officers.
Temujin, with dignity and calm, thanked his people for their devotion and loyalty and courage. “We are no longer a small clan, but a great tribe. My glory is your glory. My triumph, yours also. Ye have proved to me and yourselves that naught can resist us, for the spirits of the Blue Sky have given us their blessing. I, like you, await their further commands. In the meantime, let us rejoice. I ask no part of the spoils of this battle. It is all yours.”
He ordered a tremendous feast. He knew the value of relaxation and gaiety, after struggle. Always was he solicitous for the welfare of his people, though only Jamuga suspected that this was expediency, and not from his heart. For once Temujin had said to him: “A General who doth not spare his men when they have had enough, and hath no care for the lighter things which they desire, is a General without understanding, and one to whom his warriors will give only sullen loyalty.”
Seventy Taijiut chiefs, among them Todoyan-Girte, had been taken prisoner. They sat with their own warriors, in dark and despairing silence, listening to the rejoicing of the feast that night. They all believed that death would await them.
The next day, as Temujin sat in consultation with his nokud and his uncle, Kurelen, the Shaman came into his yurt, and made his obeisance.
“Lord,” he said humbly, “the spirits have blessed thee indeed. It is only just that thou givest them a sacrifice in return.”
Temujin winked slyly at his friends, but answered seriously:
“And what dost thou suggest, Kokchu?”
Kokchu fixed his subtle eye upon him. “The lives of the seventy chiefs which thou has taken, lord.” His thin red tongue touched his lips and wet them, as though he were relishing a good morsel.
Temujin frowned, and meditated to himself. The nokud exchanged glances. Then Subodai said:
“These seventy, particularly Todoyan-Girte, are a danger to thee, lord.” He said this gravely, and with distaste.
Chepe Noyon shrugged. “It is always well to destroy the leaders of a pack, and allow the pack to witness the destroying. Then, they are terrorized. Unless thou dost desire to murder all of them, lord?”
Temujin did not answer. He turned his head slowly. His eye touched Kasar, who was eagerly waiting to speak. But Temujin’s eye left him, and went to Jamuga. At this, Kasar’s teeth and fists clenched.
“And thou, Jamuga, what dost thou say?”
Jamuga looked him full in the face and answered: “There hath been enough death. These seventy chiefs are brave and valorous. Reconcile them to thee.”
Kasar had been about to say this very thing, but jealousy inflamed him now. He cried out, though Temujin was not looking at him: “A reconciled enemy is a treacherous friend! Kill them, lord!”
But Temujin was still gazing at Jamuga, who said quietly: “Only a man who knoweth in his heart that he is weak killeth the enemies who have fallen into his hands. It is his own impotence which he feareth, and the violence he wreaketh on his captives is only an attempted violence on his own cowardice.”
Temujin smiled, and Jamuga, looking on that smile which had something a little terrible about it, felt his heart sink wearily.
Temujin spoke with amusement: “Art thou suggesting I am a coward, Jamuga?”
The others murmured. Belgutei smiled secretly, and exchanged a glance with the silently raging Kasar. The Shaman, amazed and delighted, showed his teeth between his lips. But Kureleri, alarmed, frowned and bit a fingernail.
Jamuga saw no one but Temujin, and Temujin saw no one but Jamuga. They looked at each other in a silence that seemed to glitter like a bared sword. All color had left Jamuga’s face. His light blue eyes seemed to sink far back in their sockets, as though with sudden exhaustion of the soul.
At last he said, almost inaudibly: “I have never said that, Temujin.”
Temujin laughed a little. “But thou didst imply it, mine anda.”
Jamuga’s pale lips moved, but he was silent. He said to himself: Of what use is it that I speak?
Kurelen said, in a contemptuous voice: “Thou knowest well enough, Temujin, that Jamuga implied nothing of the sort. The man who playeth with the heart of a friend will soon discover that he is playing with a heart that hath died.”
“Or with the heart of an enemy,” smiled the Shaman.
Kurelen glanced at the Shaman, and shrugged. “At times thou are not the least subtle, Kokchu. Sometimes thou dost forget that thou art no longer the shabby, dirty shaman of a band of beggars.” He turned to Temujin, and fixed his tilted eyes sternly upon him. “A real prince hath no time for cat-and-mouse games, Temujin, and he who doth indulge in them should confine himself to a little hearth fire.”
Temujin laughed good-naturedly, though no one else would have dared speak so to him. He rested his arm on Jamuga’s shoulder, whi
ch for the first time in his life did not respond to his touch. He smiled at his anda’s cold and averted profile, which had become like stone.
“Jamuga, thou hast no sense of the ridiculous. I was but rallying thee. Learn to laugh. Thou knowest how I love thee.”
Slowly, Jamuga lifted his head and turned his face to him. It was full of pale sadness and heavy despair.
“I know nothing,” he answered.
A thick silence of consternation and surprise fell in the yurt. Temujin continued to lean his arm on Jamuga’s shoulder, and Jamuga continued to gaze unsmilingly into his eyes. But Temujin’s smile had become a little fixed. And then, at last, he removed his arm and looked, away.
All at once Kasar sprang to his feet and drew his sword. He trembled visibly. He glared at Jamuga.
“Thou white-bellied coward and traitor! Thou hast affronted our lord, and for this thou must die!”
Temujin looked at his brother and began to laugh loudly, and after a moment all joined in the laughter except Kokchu. Temujin slapped his thigh. His laughter became raucous. He pushed his brother’s side, as one pushes a silly child. Then, still choking with mirth, he said:
“Kasar, this is a momentous consultation, and not a yurt full of children. Go outside and play with the other little ones.”
Panting, Kasar glared about him, from one laughing face to another. His breath became stronger; he trembled even more. He returned his eyes to his brother, looked down at him, the sword still in his hands. And then, touchingly, there were tears in his blazing eyes. He replaced his sword, bent his head, and left the yurt.
Temujin looked after him, his face sparkling with laughter. Then he turned to Kurelen:
“Thou alone hast not been heard from. What shall we do with the seventy chiefs, Kurelen?”
Kurelen lifted his brows, and looked at him with amusement.
“Temujin, thou hast already decided what to do, and thou need not flatter us that thou art really consulting us. But if thou hast decided to murder these seventy brave men, then I ask only that thou wilt spare me the revolting sight. I am getting old, and my stomach is not what it used to be.” He turned to Kokchu, and tapped him on the arm. “It is strange, that the older a priest doth become, the more he lusteth for blood.”
Kokchu replied coldly: “I am concerned only with fitting sacrifice.”
“Then sacrifice that handsome Merkit wench of whom thou art so fond. The spirits, who are masculine, prefer a juicy morsel like this rather than the knotty flesh of hard-bitten warriors.” He waited a moment, while the Shaman regarded him with alarmed and baleful eyes. “What! Thou art not willing to sacrifice a woman in gratitude for the victory of thy lord?”
Temujin, highly amused, forced his face to assume an expression of waiting sternness, and turned to the Shaman. Kokchu flushed a deep crimson hue. He began to stammer, addressing himself to Temujin:
“Lord, it would be an insult to the spirits to offer up a slave woman.”
Temujin laughed, and all laughed with him. He rose and said: “Let us be done with this bandying. We have work to do.” Kurelen and the Shaman were the last to leave. Kurelen turned to the Shaman with a quizzical smile.
“Dost thou still enjoy my conversation, Kokchu?”
Kokchu replied sourly: “Thou art always clever, Kurelen.”
Kurelen tapped him familiarly on the shoulder-blade. “Be thou not too clever, my friend. When a priest doth err like that, he endeth up with a rope about his neck, the self-same rope he knotted for another.”
Temujin had all the captives brought before him, the thousands of them, and their seventy chiefs. He stood before them, carefully scanning their faces, the sun like a flame on his red head, his gray-green eyes sparkling like sunlit water. At first they returned his scrutiny with looks of defiance and resignation and assumed contempt. And then, in spite of themselves, in that deep silence, they were impressed and afraid. They saw that this bronzed, lined face, though young, was the face of a king, harsh and powerful and full of inexorable strength. Too, each man felt that when Temujin looked at him he drew his soul in sudden slavish answer, despite himself.
Temujin began to speak, quietly and strongly, without hurry:
“Ye are my captives, overcome in fair battle. I hold naught against you, for struggle for existence and power is the first law of the barrens and the steppes, and only he who is victor doth deserve to live and rule. I am that victor.
“Search your souls, O Taijiut, in silence, and ask yourselves if you will enter my service with loyalty, selflessness and devotion. Ye are brave and fearless men, without hypocrisy or cowardice, and the answer ye give me I will know is true. Those who will not be mine must die. But fear of death is not one of your vices, and though ye know death may confront you, ye will answer me honestly.”
He waited a moment, looking at those ranks of dark, inscrutable faces. Then he resumed:
“Thou knowest I have never broken my word to any man who was my friend and follower. I live only for my people. I am their servant. I conquer that they may be conquerors. Whosoever followeth me shall never be betrayed, and never regretful. The power of kings lies in their men. I desire men, not riches.”
He now turned to the seventy chiefs. Foremost among them was his father’s cousin, Todoyan-Girte, and he of all his people looked at Temujin with quenchless hatred and rage. His brother had been very dear to him. With his sorrow was mingled a burning humiliation and despair.
Temujin addressed each chief separately, saying: “Wilt thou swear allegiance to me?”
And one by one, after a momentary hesitation, each chief knelt before him and bowed his head in submission to his feet. As each man did this, their captive warriors murmured, until the murmuring was a dull thunder in the air. And slowly, as their chiefs knelt, so the squadrons of the Taijiut knelt, giving their submission with that of their chiefs.
Soon, the thousands were kneeling, and were silent, looking at Temujin with quiet, proud eyes, telling him with those eyes that he had conquered them because he was a great lord and they wished to follow him, and not because they were afraid.
But Todoyan-Girte did not kneel. He stood before Temujin, his face black with fury and contempt. They fixed their eyes upon each other in an intense silence, and every one watched them.
Temujin asked at last: “Thou wilt not give me thine allegiance, O kinsman?”
“Never!” cried the Taijiut with shrill violence. “Never, thou red-headed dog of a Mongol! Nor will I stoop to the shamefulness of pretense, and for the sake of my life give the scurvy son of Yesukai honor!”
Temujin slowly turned to the kneeling ranks of the Taijiut, to see how they were taking this feverish defiance and brave despair. But they were like men who were hypnotized, hearing nothing and seeing nothing but their master.
He bit his lip and knitted his brows as he turned again to Todoyan-Girte, who was panting heavily, his eyes full of black sparks. A look of admiration stood on the young khan’s face, and also regret. He heard a whisper near his ear. It was Jamuga, and he was saying urgently: “Free him, and send him back to his ordu. He is a brave and honorable man.”
Temujin looked at the others. Subodai’s beautiful face was stern but unreadable. Chepe Noyon was smiling. Kasar was glaring at Todoyan-Girte. Kurelen’s eyebrows were lifting, and he inclined his head. But Kokchu was wetting his lips avidly as he stared at the Taijiut chief.
Then Temujin withdrew his own dagger from his belt, and handed it by the hilt to the Taijiut. He smiled at him.
Todoyan-Girte stared stupidly at the dagger in his hand, and then at Temujin. His features jerked. For one moment he seemed overcome with despair. Then, still looking at Temujin, he deliberately raised the dagger and sank it into his heart. To the last, before he fell, his expression was one of indomitable hatred and contempt.
There he lay, dead and bleeding, in the wild, fierce sunlight that streamed down from the fiery blue sky. Thousands looked at him. The Taijiut were not disturbed or moved.
More than ever, their slavish admiration for Temujin grew. They thought he had done a gallant and chivalrous thing. Only Jamuga, whose face was like marble, and Kurelen, who was pursing his lips quizzically, averted their heads.
Temujin, standing beside the body of the dead brave chief, lifted his arms and cried to all his people:
“Ye are mine, and I am yours! Follow me unto the ends of the earth!”
Chapter 11
Temujin sent his old foster father, Toghrul Khan, the head of Targoutai, wrapped in silk in a basket of wrought silver. With this engaging gift was enclosed a letter, which Temujin had dictated to the literate Jamuga Sechen.
“Greetings, O venerable and revered father! It hath been many moons since I last sat at thy side, but in truth it doth seem many years, and I gaze back across the arid waste of time to those resplendent hours I spent with thee.”
Reading this, Toghrul Khan made a wry face. He glanced distastefully at the silk-wrapped head, and pushed it aside with his foot. He continued to read, and as he did so, his features became sharpened and more wizened, as though sucked together by an acrid fluid. “Hah,” he remarked, as he read.
“Thou didst have faith in me, and I have not betrayed thine astuteness. Thy power and thy glory have come from thy knowledge of men. Thou didst know me, O my father! And now I am overlord of the Northern Gobi, and have just begun.
“Thou knowest how safe are thy caravans. None hath been seized by marauders, because of my endless efforts. Thy last gift was munificent. For this I thank thee.
“I am sending thee the head of my kinsman, Targoutai, as a symbol that the sword of the Taijiut raiders and murderers and robbers hath been broken, and new caravan routes may be reopened through their former territory.”