Conn Iggulden - Conqueror (2011)

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.