Then, suddenly, in the distance, the Lake of the Damned could be seen, dimly bluish and purple in its shores of pallid shadows. There it lay, immobile, stark and mystic, a dream drifting on the desert. Many of the horsemen had never seen it before, and they uttered faint cries, believing this to be a natural inland sea, promising coolness and rest. But they thought this only a moment, for then the awfulness, the silence, the unearthly quality of the Lake bore in upon their senses, and they were terrified. The sun had fallen, and the earth was alone, spinning in a nightmare of foglike colors and soundlessness, with the Lake in the distance, spreading into infinity, and the sky above, lost in dusty rose and fading fire.
Temujin, on his horse, stood a little in advance of the others, his lance in his hand. He faced the Lake. He looked at it a long time, and the ghastly last light of the earth and the heavens lay on his face and in his eyes. He heard some one move up to him, to his side, and after a moment, he turned his head and looked at the other man. It was Jamuga, pale and silent, who was gazing at the Lake. Behind them, the thousands of warriors waited, uneasily, wrapped in their cloaks, dark-faced and intent.
Then Jamuga spoke, pointing to the Lake: “The Lake of the Damned! The Lake of those who would conquer and destroy for their own lust and vanity! As surely as this is a frightful mirage, so is the tyrant’s dream of power, and so shall his dream end, in waste and wilderness, in illusion and death.”
Temujin looked at him with an inscrutable expression, then, very slowly, be began to smile. To Jamuga, it was a most terrible smile. Then Temujin looked over his shoulder at his people, and said in a light voice:
“This is only a mirage. Nevertheless, let us pursue it, and see what doth happen.”
The men laughed with a sound of release. Temujin spurred his horse, and, with a wild hoarse shout, he rushed down towards the Lake. The others followed, shouting and screaming, brandishing their spears and lances as though in pursuit of a foe. And, after a few minutes, Jamuga followed.
The Lake lay before them, visible and mysterious, but as they thundered down upon it, it retreated, never coming nearer. They reached a region of white and acrid borax, which rose up about them, disturbed, in clouds of choking, smarting dust. But, always retreating, always frightful and unearthly, the Lake stood in the desert.
Darkness came rapidly, and all at once the Lake had vanished, and now there was nothing for endless miles but purple shadows, like sheets of water. The sky was the color of amethysts. And now the wind rose, fierce and irresistible, sweeping over the wastes with the sound of low drumming thunder. The hills had vanished. There was nothing but the purple gale, and the immense loneliness of a dead land.
Temujin, laughing and panting, reined-in his horse, and the others did likewise. He looked at them, and they looked at him. And then he stared beyond them, at Jamuga, slowly cantering up with a sad face.
“Let us be on,” said Temujin, turning about. “We must camp very soon, for the night.”
The moon rose behind the western ramparts of the templed hills, and soon flooded earth and heaven with a milky luster. The wind was stronger, now. They were obliged to camp sooner than expected, in the shadow of a bleached wall.
But Jamuga and Temujin slept apart that night, as they had never slept before, and they did not speak for the rest of the journey.
Chapter 7
Jamuga did not like the young Juchi, the Shadowed, for he was much like Bortei, with sullen gray eyes and a petulant red mouth. Moreover, he was both arrogant and intolerant, exigent and angry. He seemed to be Temujin’s favorite, for all his doubtful birth, for the boy was fearless and handsome, and, even while still a little child, would insist upon riding wild horses and subduing them with cruel blows.
But the lonely Jamuga, despairingly pondering his own escape, but not moving in that direction for a long time, loved the three younger children of his estranged anda, Chutagi, Ogotai and the young Tuli, still only an infant in the arms of his mother. These four boys were the sons of Bortei. Temujin’s children by his other wives, beautiful Turkish, Naiman, Merkit and Uighur women, were regarded by their father with fond indifference and indulgence. But the children of Bortei were his heart’s darlings. He loved their gray or green-blue eyes. Tuli, especially, was his love, for the baby had bright red-gold hair and a sweet laugh.
It was the wretched Jamuga who taught Chutagi and Ogotai the art of riding on a ram, clutching the dirty wool in sturdy little fingers. As he watched the two small boys riding the bucking animals, side by side, and shouting with glee, he would smile sadly, remembering the days when he and Temujin rode like this, laughing into each other’s faces, and understanding everything between them. It was Jamuga who taught them strange short songs. He also taught them to box and wrestle fairly, and to cast a lance with telling effect. Sometimes he wondered why Bortei, his old enemy, allowed the children to be with him so much. He did not know that this was by Temujin’s command.
Sometimes he would carry Tuli on his shoulder, and the two older boys would accompany him on foot as he led them to the water and taught them to swim. Still celibate and childless, he found an aching joy and wistfulness in the touch of these children, in the affection he saw for him in their young eyes. He told them stories, and gave them wise counsel beyond their years. Chutagi and Ogotai would listen respectfully, for this pale gentleman was their father’s anda, but they hardly understood. Tuli would gurgle in Jamuga’s arms and poke fingers into his eyes and mouth, and shriek with glee at Jamuga’s gentle bite and ferocious growls.
Kurelen watched all this with a sad wryness. Once he said to Jamuga: “Thou art no longer very young. Why dost thou not marry, and have sons of thine own?”
Then Jamuga answered sorrowfully: “I cannot marry. I cannot beget children. For I am only a pusillanimous slave. When I escape, when I am free, then shall I have peace, and a wife, and children.”
This Kurelen told Temujin. He knew that there had been only silence and avoidance between the two men for a long time, that Jamuga never was invited to the councils of the tarkhans, the orkhons and the divisional commanders, nor was he called to the feasts. Worse than all, he remained at home, obscurely and shamefully, during raids and battles. He was forgotten. Only Kurelen saw his sorrow and misery, saw the look on his face as he watched Temujin at a distance. Only Kurelen suspected that in spite of his patience Jamuga was not a meek man, and he was afraid and distrustful of the time when that patience would break and Jamuga would emerge.
So one day Kurelen said to Temujin: “Thou hast been cruel and merciless to Jamuga, because never hath he lied to thee, nor flattered thee for his own ends, nor bowed before thee. I cannot think thou dost hate him, in spite of what thou art. Let him go.”
Temujin listened with a dark and averted face. Then he said: “Go? Where can he go?”
“Let him return to his mother’s people, the Naiman. Thou hast a huge conquered tribe of the Naiman, under thy banner, loyal and devoted to thee. Let him be thy nokud, the commander of that tribe.”
Temujin snorted. “And let him preach treason to them?”
“He will never preach treason. This tribe is a quiet one, composed mostly of herdsmen and shepherds, peaceful and docile. He will be at home with them, as he never is with thee. Let him have peace. His only crime against thee is that he loveth thee, as no one else loveth thee.”
“But he is such a fool!” exclaimed Temujin, impatiently. His face was darker than ever, as though with some obscure pain and uncertainty.
“He is not a fool, Temujin. He hath only ideas alien to thee. These ideas will do no harm among the Naiman. Let him go. Thou knowest how brave he is. If thou dost need him, he will respond with selfless joy to thy command.”
Temujin promised nothing. A long time passed, and Kurelen thought that he had forgotten.
In the meantime, hundreds of other clans joined Temujin’s standard. Now there was no one stronger in the Gobi, nor had more influence, except Toghrul Khan. Because of his strength, and his
protection, the caravan routes were crowded, and his own wealth grew. His name was magic in the barrens and the desert. Every caravan brought flattering and loving letters to him from Toghrul Khan. He would have the letters read to him, then he would seize them with an oath, spit upon them, and toss them into the fires. When he did this, it was noted that his face became demoniacal, like that of a madman. And he would look to the east, his mouth moving in silent imprecations.
Jamuga, by now, had been stripped of all power, silently and relentlessly. He lived alone in his yurt, served by an old woman, a relative of his mother’s. He thought he had been completely forgotten, and daily his despair and hopelessness grew. Though still young, there were streaks of premature gray in his light hair, and two deep furrows had appeared beside his patient and rigid mouth.
Then one day he received a summons from Temujin. Trembling and bewildered, he went to the yurt of his anda, his heart beating with dread. But his manner was composed. He found Temujin alone, lolling on his couch and drinking hot tea. When he appeared before Temujin, the latter smiled at him with an aspect of such friendliness and affection that Jamuga stood dumb, unable to move. Temujin motioned him to take his place by his side, and silently Jamuga obeyed, his underiip shaking.
Temujin drank noisily. He filled a steaming cup for Jamuga. “A vile brew, but an inspiring one,” he said, laughing. His green-gray eyes began to soften into a soft blue. His red hair seemed to crackle on his head with vitality.
Jamuga drank. The hot liquid burned his throat. He could hardly control his trembling. Temujin watched him with an amiable and affectionate smile.
“Thou needest a family, and authority, Jamuga,” he said.
“I need nothing,” stammered Jamuga, in a low stifled voice.
Tears rose to his eyes. He clenched his teeth to control his emotion.
Temujin bent towards him, and laid his arm on his shoulder in his old way. He looked deeply into Jamuga’s face. What he saw seemed to amuse him, but without malice, and even with compassion.
“Thou hast deserted me, Jamuga,” he said gayly.
They might have seen each other, in friendship, but a day before. But Jamuga, with his rigid integrity and hurt, could not accept this. He was silent. He bent his head and gazed before him, tight-lipped and sad.
After a moment, Temujin removed his arm. There was a little silence between them. Jamuga, miserably, knew he ought to unbend, that he ought to look at Temujin with his old openness, accepting his anda’s mood. But he was unable to do this; he did not know how to dissemble or pretend.
Temujin spoke again, lightly and artifically, “I say, thou needest a family, a wife, or wives. Is there none among these women that doth entice thee?”
“No,” murmured Jamuga. Again, he felt the weight of tears in his eyes.
“Yet, thou dost love children.”
Jamuga was silent.
Temujin began to eat. His relishing manner was a little too obvious. He was ill-at-ease, and truth to tell, he was embarrassed and a trifle ashamed.
“I have thought matters over, Jamuga. I have decided to make thee nokud of one of the tribes of the Naiman. Quiet, peaceful people, herdsmen and shepherds.”
Jamuga lifted his head, astounded. Now his heart began to beat wildly. Color came into his pale face. He stared at Temujin, who pretended to be engrossed in dismembering meat from a small bone.
“Yes,” said Temujin, nodding his head. “I think thou wouldst be an excellent commander. And these are thy mother’s people. The present nokud is an old man, in his dotage. I know I can rely upon thy wisdom and discretion.” Now he looked at Jamuga with a brilliant smile. “What dost thou think?”
“I can only obey. And thank thee,” said Jamuga, through trembling lips. The blood was deep in his cheeks. He was like a man promised life after a threat of death.
“Good!” exclaimed Temujin, heartily. “I knew thou wouldst obey me without question.” He paused. “Jamuga, I have never forgotten thou art mine anda.”
Jamuga could only gaze at him, luminous-eyed, unspeaking.
Temujin could not endure that look. Shame smote him. He turned his head away. He could not bear the sight of such love, such humility and such joy. His hard heart twisted in his chest.
“Tomorrow, thou shalt take thy pick of the stallions, and with thee shall go one hundred men of thy choice, among the Naiman.”
He hesitated. He reached out to a tabouret, on which stood a brass box. He opened it, and withdrew a large gold ring, set with a dull red stone. He put the ring on Jamuga’s finger, and smiled into his eyes.
“I shall never forget thee, Jamuga. This is my gift to thee. Wear it to thy death, and bequeath it to thy first son. It is a talisman. If thou needest me at any time, send it with a messenger, and I shall come at once.”
Jamuga looked at the ring. He tried to speak. And then, to his own shame, he burst into tears.
The next day the city of yurts hummed with the excitement of the news. Bortei was enraged. She argued with Temujin that he was putting power into the hands of a traitor. But Houlun, despite the humiliation she had suffered long ago at Jamuga’s hands, upheld her son vigorously. Kurelen was delighted.
Temujin gave a tremendous feast in honor of Jamuga. And Jamuga sat at his right hand, with Temujin’s ring on his finger. His face was white with joy, and full of peace.
It was the last time they would ever sit so. It was the last time they would look at each other like this. Years later, Temujin remembered, and the memory never gave him anything but the strongest pain and sadness.
Chapter 8
Jamuga, by nature apprehensive and doubtful, did not expect, at the last, too much of the Naiman whom he was to rule. The Naiman who had been absorbed directly into Temujin’s people had not been distinguished by gentleness of soul, or less ferocity, than their new masters. The nomad peoples, of whatever tribe or origin, were singularly alike, both in nature and feature. Realists all, knowing with sensible clarity that the only thing worth fighting for was sustenance and pastures, they were expedient and direct.
However, from the first moment of his arrival, after a long journey, at the site of this camp of the Naiman, Jamuga’s joy was tinged with incredulity. For here there was little outward ferocity or truculence. The camp was situated in a warm and gentle valley, sheltered by the bare white sides of enormous sterile mountains which guarded it from the more fierce winds and the sharper cold. Through this narrow green valley, level and grassy, ran a smooth and quiet river, and along the banks of this river the Naiman had planted slender fields of millet and com and wheat. Oftentimes, when a winter was somewhat mild, they did not leave this site, but remained the year around. The nomad people rarely planted anything, and this, perhaps, was the true source of their ferocity, restlessness, and the hunger which was both physical and spiritual. But by planting, this tribe had become less warlike and brutal. Having to guard their fields, and till them, they were not often induced to go hunting or marauding. Civilization, by way of the growth of the earth, had begun to pervade them, and a sort of calm peacefulness had already settled over their bronzed faces.
The plow, thought Jamuga, with a sudden sense of refreshment, is the weapon of the civilized against the uncivilized, the first stone in the wall raised against barbarism. For the man who plowed the earth, and tended it, had no desire to heap it with corpses. The first step towards chaos, too, was the huge paved city, which removed its people from the earth, and filled them with the restless and rapacious spirit of the nomads. Between the barbarism of the city hordes, and the barbarism of the desert hordes, there was no difference. Ferocity and brutality sprang from homelessness, whether it be on barren or city street. The barbarian urbanite and the barbarian desert-dweller were blood brothers, having nothing to lose but their miserable lives, and having everything to gain by murder and cruelty and rapacity.
Peace cometh from the earth, Jamuga had read. He had read it, but had not understood it. But now, looking at the yellow heads o
f the grain, watching them ripple like a golden sea in the wind, he understood. The man who raised bread was the man of peace, but the homeless man who hated and sharpened his sword was the enemy of all other men. Wars and oppressions would end on the day when every man had a plot of earth to call his own. Who could watch the sun rising and setting on his own plowed land, and observe how the rains and the snows came to make fertility, and bear upon his hands the darkness of his own soil, and then lust to go forth and subjugate and destroy others?
Not far from this valley was another, in a long chain of valleys, and in this particular spot lived a tribe of the Uighur, whom Jamuga knew and respected as an able and responsible people, probably one of the first to become settled and agricultural, as well as highly civilized. Even those who developed and lived in cities did not forget their tie with the land. Between this tribe of the Naiman and the Uighur was a very friendly fraternalism, and they intermarried and held mutual celebrations. Manichaeism, Buddhism and Christianity were practised among them with fine impartiality and tolerance.
Jamuga was received at first with reserve, for every one knew of the exigency and relentlessness of Temujin, their feudal lord. They had awaited Jamuga’s arrival with apprehension, believing that Temujin would send some one like himself, who would despise their agricultural life, and whip them into militarism. It was said among them that he would immediately instill hostility in them against the Uighur, who lived such a proud and independent life, and who hated to pay tribute to any one. Because of this rumor, the Uighur had, for some weeks, kept to themselves, with sad cautiousness, and their friends, the Naiman, were miserable in consequence.