Kasar was silent a moment. He was enormously flattered, for he had believed that Kurelen had considered him foolish in the past. Then, trying to keep the conceit from his voice, he said: “Thou art right, Kurelen. I have always thought Jamuga a fool. He merely likes to talk loosely.”
While all this had been going on, Temujin, looking closely from one to the other, had sensed some undercurrents.
“Apparently it hath now been settled that Jamuga is a fool and no traitor,” he said ironically. “However, I shall summon the others and ask them what Jamuga hath said.”
Kurelen shrugged, sighed as at the words of an impetuous child.
“Temujin, hath it occurred to thee that at this time, when there is a war in prospect, this is no good moment to raise the question about a traitor in the camp? An accusation of treason doth make the people think. And Jamuga hath many friends here.”
He stood up. He placed his hand on Temujin’s shoulder. “Ask thyself in thy heart, Temujin, if thine anda is a traitor to thee.”
Temujin glowered, but he was silent.
Kurelen smiled. “Thou dost see, thou canst not answer. But I shall speak to Jamuga myself, and tell him to hold his tongue. Like all men of thought, he doth talk too much. But let him ride at thy side; perhaps he will save thy life again. Thou knowest he would die for thee.”
And so it was that Jamuga, to his surprise, and to the sudden glad aching of his heart, was summoned to ride at Temujin’s side, and he alone. When he heard the summons, he could not speak, for he was afraid that he would burst into tears.
Despite the uneasy throbbing of his integrity, his doubts and angers were swallowed up in his love.
Kurelen knew what Temujin had not forgotten, however. He only hoped that Jamuga would distinguish himself again. For he knew, with fateful prescience, that the young noyon was in the most terrible danger, and only some miracle could save him now.
Chapter 5
Jamuga wondered what thoughts haunted Temujin in the palace of Toghrul Khan. Did he see Azara in the corridors and the gardens? Did he think of her in the moonlight? He could never know. Baffled, he watched Temujin’s face, and saw there nothing but indifferent calm. Once, he pointed to the long vista of the gardens in the moonlight, and said to Jamuga: “One night I dreamt that there was a high white wall there, reaching to the heavens, with a golden door set in it. I tried to force the door, but it would not open.”
“That was an omen,” answered Jamuga, who did not know the rest of the dream. “It doth mean there are gates which men can never force, and walls through which they cannot pass.”
Temujin looked at him with a long and dreamy thoughtfulness. He smiled, then, and Jamuga, puzzled, thought he saw both pain and irony in that smile.
“I believe thou art right,” said the young khan. He walked away then, and Jamuga saw him moving back and forth in the garden, restlessly, as though searching for something.
One night Jamuga was awakened by some strange sound, like a sigh or a muffled groan. But when he sat up and listened, he heard nothing. Temujin was sleeping peacefully beside him, the pale shadow of the moon on his quiet face.
Toghrul Khan and Temujin had greeted each other affectionately. Temujin was surprised to see how the old man had aged; he had shrunken, and his face was like a withered nut, and carved with a thousand hairlike lines. But his greed and craftiness glowed in his quenchless eyes, and his voice was as sweet as ever.
Neither of them mentioned Azara, for to both it was a name not to be borne. They spoke only of the coming campaign, and Toghrul Khan expressed his gratification at the good size and appearance of Temujin’s warriors. “We shall soon defeat these Tatar animals,” he said. He smiled at his foster son, and was surprised that Temujin did not smile back.
“The Tatars are not animals,” said Temujin, tranquilly. “They are merely annoyances to the princes of Cathay. Thou hast been induced to assist the princes. Thou wilt receive thy reward. I ask only for the captives, and their wives, their children, their horses, their herds and their yurts.” And when he had said this, he would say no more. Taliph, amiable and friendly, was puzzled. But Toghrul Khan, his evil old eyes glittering, was not puzzled in the least.
A great feast had been prepared in honor of Ye Liu Chutsai, the Cathayan prince and general. It was very elaborate, licentious and extravagant. Toghrul Khan thought it only a fitting feast for so illustrious a guest, and hoped that the general would find things congenial and familiar. Ye Liu Chutsai’s father had been a Taoist, and he, himself, subscribed to this religion’s austerity and simplicity, though, as a gentleman, he loved restraint and cultured elegance. He found Toghrul Khan’s feast and palace barbarous and revolting. But, as he often said, a gentleman never allows religion or delicacy to interfere with graciousness, and so he professed to be overwhelmed and delighted by this orgy of women and color, wine and laughter, richness and vulgarity.
He was most interested in Temujin, and gazed at him with frank wonder and admiration. He had never seen red hair nor sea-green eyes before, and he thought them fascinating. Too, he was intrigued by Temujin himself, and his face and manner. He said, shortly after their first meeting: “We have a plant in Cathay, called Mon Nin Ching, an evergreen, which blooms but once in ten thousand years, and doth signify the coming of a great king or a great spiritual leader, or, sometimes, a terrible pestilence. Heaven hath given a sign in this flower, we believe. This morning, two of my evergreens burst into bloom, and tonight, I see thee.”
He smiled as he said this, gently, as though amused by his own words, and as if he were sharing an amiable joke with Temujin. Temujin smiled back. But Toghrul Khan said nothing; he looked from one face to the other like a rat that hears and sees everything in a world both hating and hated.
Ye Liu Chutsai was a handsome middle-aged man, with a voice as deep and resonant as a muted cymbal. His skin was clear ivory, and his eyes were lustrous with the light of intellectual and bodily vigor. Through his long beard, reaching beyond his middle, his lips were red and full, and given to ironic or affable smiles. His fingernails were long, thin and curved, and lacquered, and on his fingers sparkled clusters of jewelled rings. He wore only white silken robes, except when in battle. He held his head proudly yet simply. He was the first gentleman Temujin had ever seen. Between the two men, barbarian and noble, there rose a warm feeling of complete friendship and trust.
Temujin was interested in the story of the evergreen. All at once, the Chinese gentleman laughed lightly.
“This morning I pointed this flower out to my mother’s old cousin, who hath taken up some barbarous religion or philosophy. He is an old man, and wise, for all his separation from the faith of his fathers. He turned excessively pale at the sight of it, and said: ‘This flowering doth portend the coming of the ancient monster from the darkness of the past into the bloody light of the present.’
“He doth believe that the calamities that visit men are immortal, that the monster may be killed, but he doth rise again in future generations, to harass, destroy, scourge and punish men for their evil deeds and forgetfulness of God.”
He looked at Temujin with gay and dancing eyes, and laughed very heartily, but without malice.
“And then, when I told him of thy coming, he wept and said: The Monster hath come again! I knew this from the beginning.’ Thou dost see Temujin, that my old cousin hath met thee before.”
Temujin stared. And then he knew. He was nonplussed, and embarrassed, and thrown into a turmoil of thought.
“Thy cousin, the great lord, doth flatter me,” he said.
Toghrul Khan laughed, also, but he chewed his sunken nether lip, and looked only at Temujin.
Ye Liu Chutsai was enjoying his joke. He saw nothing formidable in this young Mongol in his ill-smelling rough woolen clothes and lacquered leather armor. He told himself that he must remember to repeat the joke to his mother, who laughed little since the death of her husband.
Toghrul Khan spoke maliciously to the Chinese off
icer, but looked at Temujin as he said: “Perhaps thy cousin was credulous, as many of the old are, my lord. For, thou dost see, Temujin told him once that he wished for the world.”
Ye Liu Chutsai laughed again, but without malice. He regarded Temujin with mirth-filled eyes. “Nay!” he exclaimed. “What for?”
Temujin, stung, said: “Dost thou not desire glory and conquest, my lord?”
Ye Liu Chutsai raised his eyebrows with immense surprise. “I? Most certainly not! Why should I?”
“Thy people are decadent,” said Temujin.
The Cathayan was deeply entertained. “What dost thou call decadence? Civilization? The cultivation of the arts, of music, of gracious living, of peace, of philosophy and books, and all the things which distinguish men from beasts? It seemeth to me I have heard this threadbare theory before.”
“But all these things steal away the strength and virility of men,” answered Temujin.
Ye Liu Chutsai regarded him as a teacher might regard an obstreperous but lovable child.
“Dost thou think it necessary for virility to smell of manure and go about marauding and killing? Can a man be literate and not be virile? Doth the ability to wield a pen nullify the ability to wield a sword? I do not agree with thee.” He was more amused than ever.
Jamuga, who had been listening in silence at a little distance, leaned forward eagerly. With some obscure satisfaction, he saw the dark flush rising to Temujin’s hard and arrogant face.
Temujin said: “Suppose thy great Golden Emperor were attacked, and countless besiegers had nothing to lose but their lives, and counted them as cheap. Would thy people be able to withstand such fury, as they sit in their gardens and listen to women tinkling silver bells?”
Ye Liu Chutsai gazed at him thoughtfully, with a half smile. “Thou art very subtle, my young friend. I do not underestimate thee. And thou dost not think that gardens and peace and silver bells would be worth fighting for?”
“No, because too much thought maketh men regardful for their lives, and doth inspire in them the belief that life at any price is worth the having. But my people, and peoples like them form the steppes and the barrens, hold life in small regard. Between the man who loveth life, even as a slave, and a man who loveth life only because he can lose it in battle, there can be no question of the victor.”
Ye Liu Chutsai pursed his lips and considered this. “Thou dost mean, I see, that only a man who is willing to sacrifice everything can win in the end. Perhaps thou art right. But I believe that if the empires of Cathay were threatened, we should find enough men who would prefer death to slavery. There are enough of us who love our civilization sufficiently to prize it above life.”
“Dost thou?” asked Temujin, quickly.
Ye Liu Chutsai smiled. He shrugged. “If I died, then civilization would cease to exist for me,” he answered, and at this sophistry he could not help laughing outright.
But Temujin, who understood him, felt no anger at the laughter. They regarded each other with great friendliness. Jamuga was astonished and chagrined. He could not understand the reason for the friendliness between this great cultivated gentleman and the rough, illiterate petty khan from the barrens.
Toghrul Khan told Ye Liu Chutsai of Temujin’s demand that his own spoils of the coming war be only the persons of the Tatars and their belongings. He spoke of this in a voice of gentle ridicule, for he was infuriated with jealousy and contempt. But Ye Liu Chutsai did not seem to be either contemptuous or amused. He merely gazed at Temujin with a sort of amiable surprise.
Later, he sought Temujin out, and invited him to stroll with him in the gardens. There he told the young Mongol much of the history and grandeur and civilization of his own people. Before Temujin he spread out the vast empire ruled by tradition and culture, poetry and music, philosophy and learning. As on an endless plain he saw silver rivers, mighty cities where men discussed Buddha and Lao-tse, and thought that a stanza of golden words was more of worth than the taking of loot. He heard voices, raised not in fury nor vengeance, but in long arguments as to the meaning of an obscure philosophic phrase; he saw temples and heard cymbals, and the learned discussions of priests. He heard that poets were more revered than princes, and pride of family was greater than pride in wealth. “Songs of war are no longer heard among us,” said Ye Liu Chutsai, smilingly. “We regard the soldier as lower than an animal, and hear of his exploits with disgust. When we engage in war, and rarely, we do it with dispatch, holding our noses. We prefer the comtemplation of nature, the beauty of our land. For in these things are no madnesses; madness liveth only in the minds of sick men. We love epigrams, for they are our revenge on the many insupportable things of living. We are both desperately and calmly sad, and the gayest of all people. We know that man is by nature evil, and because we are gentlemen, we cover that evil with flowers, preferring perfumes to stenches.”
“Nevertheless,” said Temujin cynically, “ye are noted for the craftiness of your traders, and the great wealth of your merchants.”
Ye Liu Chutsai laughed, and admitted: “This is so. Beyond the music of our tea-houses our merchants jingle their change. But these are not gentlemen. I am speaking only of mine own kind.”
Then, very frankly, as a philosopher cynically tolerant of all evils and nastinesses, and holding his nose, he told Temujin of the corruption of government officials, of the hatred between classes behind the great Wall, of oppressive taxes and the bitternesses between Buddhists and Confucians, of the misery of the men in the streets, of disillusion and disheartenment among thinking men, of drunken lords and lazy stupid princes, of bureaucrats and democrats in unceasing warfare of words, of bankruptcy and despair and the hopelessness of the poor. “But none of these are gentlemen,” he added, and made a faintly wry face as though his own words embittered him.
“Among such hatred and confusion, there can be no unity in the face of war and aggression,” said Temujin. He seemed to be thinking aloud.
“But the nature of the Chinese is merry, gay and passionate. Above all things, he hateth slavery.”
“Ye have gone far from your nature,” said Temujin, “and so, are ripe for destruction.”
The prince found Temujin refreshing, as a strong wind is refreshing. He wanted to hear about Temujin’s own life, and his people, and listened with intense interest, though he could not repress a private shudder.
“What do ye do in your spare time, when ye are not breeding, nor slaughtering nor quarrelling?”
“We sleep,” said Temujin, and laughed.
At this, the other man shook his head without comment, and only smiled.
Temujin was surprised at the cunning and dexterity of the Cathayan soldiers, fighting side by side with his own warriors and those of Toghrul Khan. They had no aversion to killing, he saw, but they killed as though it were an unpleasant necessity, which gave them no joy. Moreover, they defended themselves sedulously, and retreated, instead of fighting to the death. It was his own men, and the Karait, who fought with shouts of exultation and pleasure, and who died without regret or groans. He stored what he had learned away in his mind, and never forgot it. He learned that gallantry and intelligence could defend themselves poorly in the face of ferocity and recklessness. A gentleman, at the last, was no match against the fighting machine. He had too much imagination. Even when he was cornered, one could tell that he feared more than death the sharp bite of steel in his vitals, and was sickened by the sight of his own blood.
The Tatars, ferocious and wild, fought with the simple frightfulness of simple beasts. But they were soon overcome by superior numbers. Even while dying, they rose to a knee, and struck out. This, Temujin could understand, and honor.
The Tatars were driven back from the wall and fled in disorder, pursued. They left behind them their yurts and their women and children. These, Temujin confiscated. In the meantime, the men were pursued by his warriors, and captured. That night, in the midst of the huge disorder, he spoke to the Tatars and invited them to jo
in him.
They looked at him, and knew him for one of their own. They hated, with passionate hatred, the Cathayans, and the Karait, who they felt had betrayed them. But they looked at Temujin, and loved him. They knelt before him and offered their fealty.
Toghrul Khan was elated. He boasted to Ye Liu Chutsai of his victories. He was given the title of Wang, as had been promised to him, and much of the loot. Temujin desired only the men and their families and their herds and yurts. Quietly, among the Tatars, he slected two of the most beautiful maidens, and made them his wives. They felt, now, that he was their ally, and that he hated their enemies as they hated them.
“Patience,” he said to them privately. “Patience. We shall be avenged.”
Ye Liu Chutsai regretted that Temujin must now part with him.
“Do not be too dismayed,” said Temujin, with an odd smile. “We shall meet again.”
Ye Liu Chutsai insisted upon giving him a necklace of pearls and opals for Bortei, and many bamboo cases of tea and spices, and many lengths of silken cloth. They parted with expressions of mutual affection and many promises.
Temujin began the long journey homeward. Behind him trundled the vast new city of his vassals. The Tatars rode beside his own warriors, and shared their blankets and food.
Jamuga did not like the Tatars. He distrusted them. He had talked with several of the Cathayan officers at night, between battles, and he felt that here was his own people. When he rode home with Temujin, he fell behind, feeling that his anda was now a complete stranger to him, and that all love was dead between them.
“I shall go away,” he thought miserably. “Surely, my mother’s people will take me unto them. There is no place for me with Temujin.”
Chapter 6
During all the long ride homewards to the Gobi, Temujin did not speak to Jamuga, nor Jamuga to him, except on one occasion.
They had circled about, the Mongols and the Tatars, and at one twilight they suddenly entered a region familiar to Jamuga, one of low terra-cotta hills carved by the wind into strange and fantastic shapes, nightmarish and grotesque. They descended into a narrow twisting valley, reddish and dry, where a river had run. Now the sun was setting, and the earth swam in unearthly colors of violet, yellow, bronze and scarlet, in which the hills drifted, lit into pink clarity by the last bloody light. The silence of the barrens, empty and motionless, fell over the whole world. Even the horsemen made no sound, as they moved down the valley, winding past colored hills in the forms of pillared temples and flattened volcanoes.