Conn Iggulden - Conqueror (2011)

Alghu had rushed up to the crest of the wall, sagging against a stone pillar as he stared out into the distance. Had he offended Arik-Boke in some way? Lord Alghu swallowed painfully, his throat dry in the breeze. If the khan chose to make an example of him, his beloved cities would be burnt, his people slaughtered. Alghu had no illusions about the destructive strength of a Mongol army in the field. The tumans before Samarkand would tear through the Chagatai khanate like an unstoppable plague. He saw his own death in the fluttering banners.

His senior men had climbed the sandstone steps to see and they looked to him to give orders. Lord Alghu summoned his will, forcing himself to think. He led them all and their lives were in his hands. He did not blame his daughter. Aigiarn was young and headstrong, but whatever insult Arik-Boke believed he had been given did not warrant sending an army. He would send her away from the city so that Arik-Boke’s malice would not fall on her. Lord Alghu shuddered at the thought.

‘My lord, I cannot see the khan’s banners out there,’ one of his men said suddenly.

Lord Alghu had been turning to the steps to go down. He stopped.

‘What do you mean?’ he said, coming back and peering out again. The day was clear and he could see a long way from the height of the walls.

‘I don’t understand,’ Alghu muttered as he confirmed it with his own eyes. Arik-Boke’s banners were missing, but he did not recognise the others flying there. They seemed to have some animal embroidered on yellow silk. It was too far to be certain, but Lord Alghu knew he had never seen those flags before.

‘Perhaps I should go out and ask them what they want,’ he said to his men, smiling tightly.

Their expressions didn’t ease in reply. All of them had family in Samarkand or the cities around it. The Chagatai khanate had not been attacked for decades and yet they all knew the stories of slaughter and destruction that had come with Genghis. It was impossible to live in the khanate and not hear them.

A small group of warriors walked forward from the tumans in front of his city, each man bearing rolls of cloth. Alghu stared down in confusion as they approached the walls. One of his soldiers began to bend a bow nearby, but he snapped an order to be still.

Thousands watched curiously as the white tent began to take shape, the men below hammering pegs and stretching ropes to hold it. It was not as solid as a ger and its sides fluttered in the breeze. When Lord Alghu recognised it, he fell back a step, shaking his head.

‘It can’t be,’ he whispered. Those who remembered stood in shock, while their friends demanded to know what it meant.

‘Ready the gates!’ Lord Alghu shouted suddenly. ‘I will go out to them.’ He turned to his men, his expression sick with worry.

‘This has to be a mistake. I do not understand it, but the khan would not destroy Samarkand.’

He almost fell as he ran down the steps, his legs weak under him. His horse was on the main street into the city, waiting with his personal guards. They knew nothing of what he had seen and he did not enlighten them. The white tent was a demand for total surrender and it had to be answered before the red tent rose. As he mounted, Alghu told himself he had a day, but he could hardly think for fear. The red tent would mean the death of every male of fighting age in the city. The black tent was a promise to slaughter every living thing, including women and children. The city of Herat had ignored Genghis when he threatened them in such a way. Only lizards and scorpions lived in that place when he had finished.

‘Open the gates!’ Lord Alghu roared. He had to answer the demand immediately. His soldiers removed the great bar of oak and iron and began to heave them apart. As a line of light showed, their lord turned to one of his most trusted men.

‘Go to my sons, my daughter. Take them safely to …’ He hesitated. If the khan had decided to destroy his line, there was no safe place in the world. Arik-Boke would hunt them down and no one would dare give them shelter for fear of the khan’s vengeance.

‘My lord, the village of Harethm is a hundred miles to the north and west,’ the bondsman said. ‘I lived there once and it lies within the borders of the Hulegu khanate. No one will know they are there but you. I will protect them with my life.’

‘Very well,’ Alghu replied, breathing in relief. ‘Go now, from another gate. I will send for them if I can.’

As the gates opened further, Lord Alghu saw a crowd of men and women pressing in, their hands outstretched in panic. His soldiers began to shove them back to let their master pass. Lord Alghu had no eyes for them as they streamed around his men. The city was no safer than their place outside it.

He stared out at the dark lines of the tumans waiting for him. Fear was a knot in his stomach as he dug in his heels and began to trot forward. As he passed under the shadow of the arch, he saw his bannermen begin to unfurl his personal flags.

‘White banners,’ he snapped, close to panic. ‘We go out under truce.’

His men stared at him, seeing his fear. They had no white flags, but one of the refugees wore a white robe. In an instant, the unfortunate man had been clubbed to the ground and stripped, his garment raised to flutter on a spear as Lord Alghu rode out.

‘Would you like to come with me?’ Kublai asked his son. Zhenjin grinned, showing white teeth. In answer, he dug in his heels and his horse lunged forward. Kublai nodded to Uriang-Khadai and the orlok whistled to the closest jagun of a hundred warriors. They detached from the ranks, forming up on both sides of the two senior men. Kublai’s bannermen came with them, carrying yellow flags with Chinese dragons on them that caught the sun and glittered.

‘Be silent and listen,’ Kublai murmured to Zhenjin at his side as they closed on the force from the city.

‘Are we going to kill them?’ Zhenjin asked. The idea did not seem to trouble him particularly and Kublai smiled. He had seen the white flag flapping above them.

‘Not unless I have to. I need this khanate on my side.’

They halted together, demonstrating their discipline to those who watched from the walls. Lord Alghu’s men pulled up with less precision, the sort of sloppy display Kublai’s tumans expected from city soldiers.

Lord Alghu came out with his most senior man and Kublai matched him with Uriang-Khadai. The two smaller groups faced each other in the bright sunlight, casting long shadows on the sandy ground. Kublai waited, standing on his dignity for once and forcing them to speak first.

The silence lasted only moments before Lord Alghu cleared his throat.

‘Who are you to raise a white tent before my city?’ he demanded.

‘I am Kublai Borjigin, grandson of Genghis, great khan of the risen nation. Give me your name and acknowledge me as your lord and we have no quarrel.’

Lord Alghu gaped, slumping in the saddle. He had met Kublai as a boy, but the years had changed him beyond all recognition. The man he faced wore a Chin silk robe over a tunic, with dragons embroidered on the material. Yet there was a sword at his hip and he looked strong and dangerous. Lord Alghu peered into the sunlight and saw the light gold eyes that so often marked the line of Genghis. He swallowed.

‘I am Alghu Borjigin,’ he stammered, ‘khan of the Chagatai territory. If you are …’ He hesitated, having been about to say words that suggested he doubted Kublai’s claim. He could not afford to insult a man with twelve tumans. ‘I am your cousin, son to Baidur, son to Chagatai, son to Genghis.’

‘I met you when I was young, did I not? Before Guyuk was made khan in Karakorum?’

Lord Alghu nodded, trying to reconcile the memory of the thin boy with the man he faced.