Toghrul Khan raised his brows, and mused with pleasant surprise at this. The new routes would save time and men for the traders and merchants, exceedingly much time. New markets would be obtained. New riches for his coffers. He absently lifted a sweetmeat from the gold and enamel bowl at his side and chewed with slow pleasure. “There is something in all this,” he reflected. “Nevertheless—”
He continued to read. “Ofttimes caravans were about to be attacked, and then the word went forth: ‘Temujin has guaranteed these!’ And the marauders scattered like dust in wind, with cries of terror. My name is worth a thousand warriors to those who travel on thy business, and the business of those who have been kind and astute enough to trust, and reward me.
“I salute thee, O my father. I am thine to command. Thy son, Temujin.”
Toghrul Khan sat in a deep aura of thought after he had finished this letter. Then his eye fell again on the silver basket containing the head of Targoutai. He grimaced. He thrust at the head again with his foot, and said to one of his servants: “Take it away. And, ah yes, fill it to the brim with silver coins. Nay, half silver, half gold, and a necklace of pearls wrapped in five lengths of cloth of silver embroidered with turquoises, for the wife of Temujin Khan. And tell my scribe to come to me at sunset, for a letter to my noble son, Temujin.”
As the servant bowed deeply and was about to go, Toghrul Khan added: “And a herd of three hundred stallions for my son, also, to accompany the messenger and his bodyguard. One hundred fifty of the black, one hundred fifty of the white.”
A gift for a prince, thought the slave, as he left the wide cool apartment of the old khan.
Toghrul Khan was spending the cool winter months in one of the larger Karait towns, for his rheumatism was annoying him again, and he was lamed by it. His palace was small, but perfect, for it had belonged to a bankrupt Persian noble, who liked women and gambling much too well. It was built in graceful, somewhat effeminate lines, of white marble, and its green gardens, filled with heavy trees and fronded palms and emerald pools and white bridges and many flowers, were the gardens of a poet. Awnings of striped red and white silk made spots of coolness on the hottest day, and the air was full of the singing of fountains and the soft laughter of the women of the harem. Toghrul Khan was a lover of silken black cats, and also of the fluffy gray Persian variety; they ran everywhere, meticulously attended by slaves.
One of them, huge and gray as a soft cloud, lay at Teghrul’s feet, as he sat among his silken cushions in his own shaded apartments. Though the air in the gardens was balmy, and the sun hot, there was yet an edged breeze, and this his malady could not endure. His old withered legs were covered with woolen robes and furs, and a brazier burned warmly near him, upon which a slave would occasionally throw handfuls of myrrh and other sweet scents. The room was large and airy, the floor of blocks of alternating black and white marble, glinting dimly in the gloom. Behind him was a little colonnade of fluted white pillars, for the Persian noble had pretensions of old Greek elegance. This colonnade was open to the sun, and the light was a dazzling curtain through which shone the intense blue sky. The tops of green trees could be seen by the old man on his cushions, and he liked to watch them sparkling and moving in the wind. He could hear the gay laughter of the women, disporting themselves in the gardens, and the sweet and merry tinkling of music. Other rooms were partitioned off by thick curtains of crimson silk, fringed with gold. Behind the khan stood a beautiful brown female slave with rings of gold in her ears, which were reflected on her round cheeks. She was naked to the waist, and clothed downward therefrom in diaphanous silk spangled with jewels. She held a fan of ostrich plumes in her flexible hand, and moved them languidly, to keep the smoke of the brazier, and the flies, from the head of her master. Her reflection in the marble floor moved with her, and the jewels on her garment sparkled faintly. Her brown breast shimmered with her breath; her black eyes rolled and caught the reflected light. Sometimes she lifted a bare foot, and little golden bells jangled. When she yawned, her red, full lips revealed teeth as white and glistening as an animal’s.
The room was filled with carved chests, heavy carved teakwood tables, with legs cut to resemble the legs and claws of dragons, soft couches draped with silk, and cabinets of ebony and ivory. There were also small stools and tabourets of ebony. Scarlet banners hung against walls of marble. And on one wall hung Toghrul Khan’s favorite cross, huge and gold and intricately pierced. At this particular time he was a Christian, though yesterday, upon the visit of a little sultan, he had been the most devout son of Islam. This morning a rich Nestorian bishop had called upon him, to discuss the condition of those of his people who were Christians. Toghrul Khan reflected that tomorrow he must be a Mohammedan again, for the first envoys of the Caliph of Bokhara were to call upon him to make the final arrangements for the marriage of Azara, which was to take place in four weeks.
Toghrul ordered the brown girl to draw the crimson curtains over half of the aperture that led to the little colonnade. He complained that the wind had veered, and was blowing upon his bald and yellow skull. When she had obeyed, he lay back on his cushions, and again gave himself up to thought. He held his cat in his arms, and stroked the pampered beast absently, with voluptuous touches. His eye wandered over the great room, and seemed to be interested in the jade-colored Chinese porcelain vases with their twisted arms, and the sparkling gold and silver boxes, and the crystal and silver lamps on the tables. One huge porcelain vase, half the height of a man and almost as wide, and exquisitely enamelled in lustrous green, gold and scarlet, stood against one section of a marble wall, and was filled with white and rosy flowers. This was Azara’s loving task: to keep it filled for the delight of her father. The flowers exhaled a scent at once delicate and poignant, which could be discerned over the odors of the incense on the brazier.
Toghrul’s eye continued to wander. Now it dropped to the floor, and appeared concerned with the rich shimmering hues of the, small Turkish and Persian rugs scattered over the marble. But in reality he saw nothing but his own thoughts. Finally he clapped his hands with a dry, impatient sound, and a eunuch, huge and fat and naked to the waist with a scimitar thrust through his silver belt, entered and bowed his head to the old man’s feet.
“Send my son, Taliph, to me, at once.”
Taliph was his oldest and favorite son, the first-born of Toghrul’s first and favorite wife. He soon came to his father, a tall, thin, dark man, still youthful, with a narrow, sleek head and the crafty face of a priest. He imagined himself a graceful poet, but all his poetry was plagiarized from Persian poets, especially Omar Khayyam. But it was very skillfully plagiarized, and sometimes there would be a line, or a verse, that was original and clever, and so cunningly mixed with the borrowed phrases and stanzas that his erudite friends could praise it without too much hypocrisy. His dress was elaborate and somewhat effeminate, and he was given to many rings. But Toghrul Khan forgave him the poetry and the dress, for Taliph was evil and unscrupulous and wise and witty, and exceedingly subtle. Moreover, he pleased his father by his greediness and expediency, and because the old man could never deceive him.
Toghrul made him sit by his side, and himself poured a crystal goblet for him of spiced wine. As his son drank, he gazed at him with his usual fond amusement. He greatly admired the dark, narrow face, elongated and quick, and the alert and jerking black eyes, deep-sunken under a high, thin forehead. The cheeks were concave and heavily lined, giving him an ascetic and avid look, almost of interesting illness. Even in repose, the thin, wide mouth seemed twisted in a cruel and ironical smile. His rings glittered in the semi-darkness, and under the wide sleeves Toghrul suspected that there were gemmed bracelets. But he could even forgive this, looking at the competent dagger at his belt, and the strong, lean hands, so dark and long.
“What wert thou doing? Playing with the women, or writing poetry as usual?” he asked, trying to make his fond voice disdainful.
Taliph smiled, delicately wiped his lips. He regarded his fathe
r with disrespectful affection.
“Neither. I was taking a bath.”
Toghrul elaborately sniffed, and grimaced. “Hah! So that is the source of the attar of roses! Why dost thou not try verbena for a change? I prefer it.”
Taliph shrugged. “I still prefer attar of roses. They coincide with my moods.”
“Azara doth like violets. I have discovered that women who love violets are much more to be desired than women who love roses. That is, if one only careth to gaze upon them. But wantons worship roses. Just at present, I prefer that Azara confine herself to violets. But then, she will never change to attar, I fear.”
Taliph yawned. “Didst thou disturb me in my bath to discuss the preferences of Azara, and to comment upon her chastity?”
“Nevertheless, obliquely, Azara is concerned with my news. Here: read this letter I have received from Temujin, that barbarian and sweaty baghatur of the barrens.”
Taliph read the letter. He began to laugh.
“Dost thou know what I think? This animal from the Gobi doth condescend to thee!”
Toghrul showed no resentment. He smiled with genuine amusement. “I thought that, also. Thou shouldst see him! But then, thou couldst not endure the smell. Even if he bathed in thy perfumed bath, he would still stink of horses and manure and sour milk and the arms of unwashed women. But yet there is something splendid about him. Splendor is often an attribute of strong wild beasts, who lurk in deserts and stony mountains. He hath a terrible eye of jade, and hair as red as a sunset, and a voice one must listen to, however reluctant and contemptuous.”
Taliph cocked an eyebrow. “Nevertheless, he hath made thy caravans safe, and so enriched thee to twice thy former condition. My friends tell me that their fathers swear by him superstitiously. And from this letter, I would gather that he hath made himself a power among the hordes.” He twisted his lips. “Pah! Those hordes! They are not men, but beasts. Once I thought I would compose an epic poem about them, but just at that time I smelled a score of the petty nobles visiting in one of the bazaars. Sometimes I wish I had not so sensitive a nose.” He sighed regretfully. “It would have been a fine poem. The hordes against a red evening sky, on the gray and purple desert! Campfires, and primitive songs. Beautiful wild women on white stallions. But now I must admit they are but animals, who call themselves men by our courtesy. Once I thought I would visit them, and feel the winds of the barrens in my face, and afterwards compose a poem that would be sung down the ages.”
Toghrul laughed. “If one wisheth to be sentimental, one must first hold the nose. But still, Temujin doth smell no worse than the small sultan who visited me yesterday. I should like thee to see him. From a distance, of course.”
Taliph waited. He fixed his eyes intently on his father.
Toghrul sighed. “I have been trying to make up my mind whether or not I should have him murdered. Thou art astute. Thou hast already discerned what he is. He will continue to go on. Who knows but what he may eventually control all the Gobi? Who can then prophesy what may happen? I have encouraged and helped him, and so have my friends, because of our caravans. But will he be content merely with the barrens?”
“I think not,” answered Taliph, coolly. “But thou canst secretly encourage other petty khans against him, and so keep him busy defending himself. Never let a vassal become too strong. The balance of power must remain with the master. But it doth take critical wisdom and judgment to know just how far to hamper a vassal. On one hand, he may be so enfeebled as to lose the master the gains he hath given him. On the other hand, his busy encounters with others secretly encouraged by the master may make him even stronger, and the final conqueror. Thou must be careful thou dost make a nice balance. Perhaps a peaceful confederation and agreement and exchange among all the petty nobles of the steppes? Confederations are excellent for the master, if they all throng under his banner for mutual protection and gain.”
Toghrul shook his head. “Thou dost not know the hordes! Peaceful confederations cannot exist among them, except by violence and force. And the one who finally doth form them with such violence and force into a confederation is their real master. Then we of the towns will have good reason to be apprehensive., Remember, we are not dealing with civilized men, but with barbarians.”
“There is really little distinction,” observed Taliph. “All are amenable to profit. Why not suggest to this Temujin that thou art now well satisfied with what he hath done, and that he may now rest on his victories? Or his women? Tell him thou wilt see that he is maintained in his lordship over the northern Gobi, but that thou canst guarantee him no assistance if he doth endeavor to extend his domain. Thou dost know him: perhaps thou canst also suggest, with a little hint of reproof, that thou wilt countenance no further conquests, and that if he doth not obey thee, thou mayest even remove the support thou art already giving him.”
Toghrul looked at him admiringly. “How astute thou art, Taliph. But what of the other merchants and townsmen? Will they follow me on this? Or will they, out of envy or enmity, continue to encourage Temujin if I remove my support? Can they be made to understand the potential danger of his unrestricted conquests?”
“There I can offer thee little encouragement, my father,” replied Taliph frankly. “Fat merchants and tradesmen have no imagination. They are like overfed and avaricious sheep, without eyes. They see only the immediate profit, and will slavishly support him who doth promise them continued revenue. Most of them hate thee. They may make a deal with this smelly Temujin, and so engage him to seize thy caravans, and divide the spoils with him. There is no honor among merchants.”
Toghrul was silent, but his little eye brightened. He and his son looked at each other vividly. Then Taliph laughed regretfully, and shook his head. “I am afraid that would do no good, my father. Once suggest to Temujin that he seize other caravans for thee, and he will have thoughts of thine, also. But I have an idea he is too clever to make enemies of thy competitors. He is apparently looking ahead to something else.”
“That is what I am afraid of. Pah. What am I saying? Our towns and cities are well fortified, and our soldiers well trained. He cannot make himself that strong in one generation. And after I am dead, I will not care.”
Nevertheless, he was uneasy. He gnawed his lip.
“I still think thou canst continue to give him rich gifts, and bind him to thee,” said Taliph, after a long reflection. “Who knows? We have imagination, and can extend our horizon. The extending of horizons is easy in the cities, among townsmen. But this Temujin probably is incapable, after all, of far-sighted vision. Strong animals rarely realize their strength, and can always be stroked into submission by a skillful hand that doth also feed them well.”
Again his father was silent. Taliph regarded him thoughtfully, and finally he smiled with delicious amusement.
“But thou dost hate him personally, dost thou not, my father?”
Toghrul’s small and wizened face contorted into a malignant if somewhat sheepish smile. But he said: “Thy subtlety doth imagine too many things. I can see, though, after this conversation with thee, that I dare not murder him. Our caravans would no longer be safe from the hordes. I have a thought: I shall invite him to be a guest at the marriage of Azara. Then thou canst study him at thy leisure.”
Taliph affected to be alarmed. “But thou dost know I cannot endure stenches! Do not have him in the palace. Set up his tent outside thy grounds.” He stood up and laughed lightly. “How absurd we are, in truth! We have vast armies of soldiers. Behind us, we have the huge empire of Cathay, with her legions. We have been indulging in daydreams. However, bring this Temujin to me, and let me see him. Mayhap I may write a poem after all. About him, with my finger and thumb on my nose.”
And so it was that the next day Temujin’s messengers were dispatched with the rich gifts, and a gracious letter of invitation for Temujin to attend the wedding ceremony of Azara of the wondrous pale hair.
Toghrul Khan, laughing to himself at the nightmares hi
s imagination had conjured up, thought: The Gobi is vast. No one can conquer the extent of it. No one man in his own lifetime. And even if he could, what barbarian chieftain would dream of attacking mighty Cathay, and the Khwarismian Empire, and all our mighty Turkoman cities? He would be crushed like a presumptuous fly. I am an impotent old man, and have grandiloquent dreams of what I, myself, might like to do. if God gave me countless legions.
But nevertheless, he slowly resolved in himself that the day would soon come when he must destroy Temujin, not because of any fear of him, but because of his hatred.
We arm those we hate with supernatural weapons, and cower before them, he thought. And so, at the last, it is not they who conquer us, but ourselves.
Chapter 12
On a certain day Temujin had two reasons for rejoicing and exultation. The most important, for the moment, was the birth of Juchi, son of Bortei. The second was the arrival of the jubilant messengers with the gifts of Toghrul Khan.
It was dawn when Houlun, her graying hair covered with her hood, aroused her son and told him that his wife had given birth to a man-child. She stood there as she told him, a lamp in her hand, her gaunt heroic face carved into black harsh planes by the dim light. Her gray eyes looked out at him gravely and inscrutably, from under the narrow ledge of her brow. Her tall magnificent body was held with her old pride and dignity, the heavy folds of her garments following each line of thigh and breast. She was a priestess announcing strange things.
Temujin, with a cry of joy, rose at once and threw a fur cloak over his shoulders. Bare-headed, he ran out into the first mysterious light of the morning. The disturbed dogs began to bark. He flung himself into his wife’s yurt, and found it full of ministering women. Bortei, spent but tranquil, lay exhausted on her couch, and watched a serving-woman as she anointed the squirming naked body of the baby. It was a strong child, and shouted indignantly, though he was barely an hour old. By the light of the tallow lamps Temujin looked at the child, and saw an angry red face, a big round head covered with wet black hair, and the broad chest of a future soldier. He thought to himself: Is this my son, or the son of another? He knew he would never know. But all at once this was insignificant. It was a child, and probably the fruit of his own loins, and a fine fellow. That was sufficient to the man-hungry Mongol.