Conn Iggulden - Conqueror (2011)

Arik-Boke breathed slowly, forcing himself to relax. It was time: the nation waited for him to speak. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the incense that lay strongly on the air.

‘My brother Mongke entrusted the homeland to me, the plains where Genghis himself was born. In his absence, he entrusted Karakorum to my hands. I will continue his work, his ambitions, his vision for the small khanates. The nations cannot be left unattended, this we have agreed.’ His heart pounded and he took another breath.

‘I will be great khan, in the line of Genghis, in the line of Ogedai, Guyuk and my brother Mongke. Speak your oaths to me and honour my brother’s wishes.’

Hulegu knelt first at his side and Arik-Boke rested a hand on his shoulder. Mongke’s sons followed, for all to witness. Arik-Boke had offered them lands and wealth and had hardly needed to explain the alternative. After such a public display, there would be no one whispering to them that they could have taken the khanate.

As far as the eye could see, the tumans followed suit. In a ripple like a rock dropping into a still pond, the assembled princes knelt and offered gers, horses, salt and blood. Arik-Boke shuddered slightly, closing his eyes. Only Kublai was missing from the great host before Karakorum. His brother would hear the news from the yam riders waiting to gallop away, but by then the whole world would know there was a new khan. At least Kublai was not a man of great ambition, or he would surely have challenged Mongke when they were all still young. Arik-Boke tried to ignore the itch of his doubts. Kublai should have come home when he heard Mongke had died, but he had not. He was a dreamer, more suited to libraries and scrolls than leadership of the nation. If his older brother chose to challenge him, Arik-Boke would answer with all the force of the risen nation.

Arik-Boke smiled at the thought of the scholar riding to war. Kublai had sent home the women and children of his tumans. They too had given their oaths to him, kneeling in the dust before Karakorum. As Mongke’s sons had chosen their path, Kublai would be forced to accept the new order. He sighed with pleasure at the sight of so many tens of thousands on their knees before him. The youngest son of Tolui and Sorhatani had dared to stretch out his hand when the people needed a khan. It was Arik-Boke’s day and the sun was still rising.

PART THREE

AD 1260

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The imperial meeting chamber at the heart of Hangzhou was in uproar. Sung lords had gathered without being called, as the sense grew that they must not miss whatever was happening. As the morning wore on, runners and servants constantly reported to those in their city houses outside the grounds. More and more made the decision and summoned their bearers and palanquins. Younger lords came on horseback, wearing swords on their waists and surrounded by loyal guards. There was no sense of peace or security in the hall. The tension and noise rose by the hour.

They had travelled in from their estates to the old emperor’s funeral, but when it was over, they remained in their city houses, waiting to be summoned to council. The Mongol armies had come within striking distance of the capital city. There was fear in Hangzhou, a febrile tension in the air. Soldiers on the walls strained their eyes into the distance as if Mongol outriders could appear out of the morning mist with no warning at all. Information changed hands for strings of silver coins as the rumour-mongers parlayed small knowledge into the highest profits.

The conclave that day had begun from a rumour that the new emperor was ready to call them. No one knew who had begun it, but the news spread to every noble house before dawn. Daylight brought no formal summons and barely a dozen lords had come to the imperial precinct and taken places. Word went out that they were there and as the morning passed the number doubled and then doubled again, as senior lords worried they were being excluded from some important event. The tipping point came in the early afternoon. Independently, the last eight heads of Sung houses decided they could wait no longer for the new emperor to call them. They entered the meeting hall together with swordsmen and servants, so that every seat and balcony was packed as the sun began to ease towards the west.

Lord Sung Win was at the centre of it all, tall and thin in robes of mourning white. Many of the others wore less traditional dark blue to mark the passing of the emperor, but there was no sense of funereal calm. The gong that usually rang to announce the conclave was silent and many eyes glanced towards it, still expecting the booming note that would restore order. It could not be struck without the emperor’s command to gather, yet they were there, waiting for some act or voice. No one knew how to begin.

As the day waned, Lord Sung Win had taken a central position on the open floor, letting others come to him. Through his servants and vassal lords, he brokered information, observing the factions that gathered briefly and then drifted apart like silkworm husks in the wind. He showed no sign of weariness through the long hours and in fact seemed to grow in energy, his height and confidence commanding the room. The numbers swelled around him and the level of noise became almost painful to the ear. Food and drink were brought and consumed without anyone leaving their place.

There was tension and even fear in the faces of those who came. It was forbidden for them to assemble without the emperor’s order and for many the decision to do so risked their names and estates. They would not have dared to come if Emperor Lizong still lived. The heir to the dragon throne was unknown to them, a boy of only eleven years. It was that fact above all else that allowed them to join the throng in the hall. The light of heaven had been extinguished, the empire left suddenly adrift. In the face of such an omen, there was a fragile consensus. They could not ignore the enemy any longer.

Lord Sung Win felt the chaos like strong drink in his blood. Everyone who entered could see him there, representing one of the oldest houses in the empire. He spoke softly to his vassals, a centre of calm and tradition in a growing gale. The smell of opium was pungent and he watched in amusement as lords set out ornate trays, soothing their nerves with the ritual process that began with rolling soft pills on bronze vessels and ended with them sitting back, drawing deeply on the pipes and wreathing themselves in bitter smoke. His own fingers twitched with the urge, but he controlled it. The meeting was a new thing and he dared not lose even some part of his wits.

As the sun began to set, many of the lords present lowered themselves onto porcelain pots carried in by their servants. Their robes hid everything from view as they emptied long-held bladders and bowels, the steaming contents borne away quickly so that the lords could stay in place. Sung Win waited for the right moment. There were at least two other groups who might yet open the conclave. One could be dismissed as lacking support, but the young man at the centre of the other faction was flushed with his own sudden rise to power. Lord Jin Feng’s brother had been killed in the most recent attack on the Mongol forces. It should have left his house weak for a season, but the new lord had taken on the responsibilities with skill.

Sung Win frowned at the memory of a trade agreement he had tried to force through with the family. It had looked like the support of a friend, a financial gift with few conditions to tide them through difficult times until the house was stable. A single clause would have allowed him to annex part of their land if they had defaulted. It had been perfect, both subtle and powerful. They would have given him insult if they had refused and he had waited for the sealed document to be sent back to him. When it had arrived, he had been delighted to see the perfect lines of the house chop on the thick parchment. He had let his eyes drift down to the single line that made the agreement a weapon as sharp as any dagger. It had not been there.