CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

The rains had come at last to Samarkand, pounding on the tile roofs of the city in a constant downpour that had lasted for days and showed no sign of ceasing. The streets ran as rivers and the inhabitants could only endure. Illness spread as cesspools overflowed and added their stinking contents to standing water, some even corrupting the city wells. The air remained hot even so and Genghis abandoned the shah’s palace when a vicious new pestilence appeared. It began with vomiting and loose bowels, killing first children and the old as they grew weak. No one was safe and there was no pattern to it: in one area, hundreds would die, while no one suffered in streets all around. Chin physicians told Genghis that such a scourge could only be left to run its course.

The khan urged Arslan to leave Samarkand, but the old general refused, as was his right. The city was his. Arslan had not mentioned the first stirrings of sickness in his gut as he walked Genghis to the gates and saw them nailed shut. With the khan safe, Arslan had closed his eyes, feeling a hot iron in his bowels as he walked back to the palace through deserted streets. Genghis heard of his death just days later.

When Genghis looked at Samarkand after that, it was with fury and grief, as if the city itself were responsible. Those inside mourned the dead or joined them while the khan and his generals took shelter in the gers outside. No one died there. The families collected their water from the lakes to the north and sickness did not strike the camp.

Tsubodai was sighted as the number of deaths in the city began to fall and the air grew cool for the first time in many months. As the general drew closer, tension mounted palpably in the camp. Genghis became more and more irritable until no one dared approach him. The death of Arslan had put the final touch on a bad year and he was not sure he wanted to hear what had become of Jochi. No one had died for four days when he allowed the city to open its gates at last and burn the rotting dead. Arslan was among the corpses and Genghis sat by the funeral pyre as his oldest friend was reduced to clean ash and bones. The shamans of the nation gathered solemnly to chant the general’s soul through to the sky father, though Genghis hardly heard them. The great fires seared the air, burning away the last of the sickness. In some ways, it felt like a rebirth. Genghis wanted to put bad memories behind him, but he could not prevent Tsubodai coming home.

As Tsubodai reached the walls of Samarkand at last, Genghis waited for him in the khan’s ger, lost in dark thoughts. He looked up when the general entered through the small door and, even then, a small part of him hoped he would have failed.

Tsubodai handed the wolf’s-head sword to the khan, his eyes shadowed and showing nothing. Genghis took it almost with reverence, laying the scabbard across his lap and breathing out slowly. He looked older than Tsubodai remembered, worn thin by battle and time.

‘The body?’ Genghis asked.

‘I would have brought it back, but the heat…’ Tsubodai’s gaze fell to a rough sack he had brought with him. He had carried its withered contents for hundreds of miles.

‘I have Jochi’s head,’ he said.

Genghis winced.

‘Take it away and bury or burn it,’ he replied. ‘I do not want to see.’

Tsubodai’s eyes flashed for a moment. He was tempted to remove the head from the sacking and make the khan look at the dead face of his son. He throttled the impulse quickly, knowing it was born of exhaustion.

‘Did his men resist afterwards?’ Genghis asked.

Tsubodai shrugged.

‘Some of the Chin officers chose to take their own lives. The rest came with me, as I thought they would. They are still fearful that you will have them killed.’ He breathed deeply. ‘I made promises to them.’ Tsubodai sensed Genghis was about to speak and threw aside his caution. ‘I will not see my word broken, my lord khan,’ he said.

The two men stared at each other for a long moment, each assessing the will of the other. Finally Genghis nodded.

‘They will live, Tsubodai. They will fight again for me, yes?’ He chuckled, though it was a forced and ugly sound. The silence became uncomfortable until Tsubodai spoke again.

‘I heard of your victory.’

Genghis put aside the sword, relieved at being able to speak of mundane things.

‘Jelaudin escaped,’ he said. ‘I have scouts searching for him, but there is no sign. Do you want the task?’

‘No, lord. I have had enough of the heat. The one good thing I found in going north was in welcoming the cold again. Everything is cleaner there.’

Genghis hesitated as he considered how to reply. He sensed a great bitterness in his general and he did not know how to ease it. He recalled the worst times of his own life and knew that time alone would heal the man, rather than anything he could say. Tsubodai had obeyed his orders and he was tempted to tell him to take comfort from that.

Genghis held his tongue. The brooding general brought a subtle sense of menace into the ger and Genghis felt invisible hackles rise as he struggled for words.

‘I will move the nation to Herat in the west. One sharp blow there will restore the nerve of other cities. After that, I think I will return home for a few years. It has been too long and I am tired.’

Tsubodai tilted his head slightly and Genghis felt his temper begin to fray. The man had followed his orders and Jochi was dead. What more could he want?

‘Did you hear that Arslan died in the city?’ he asked.

Tsubodai nodded. ‘He was a great man,’ he said softly.

Genghis scowled at the calm tone.

‘Even so, it was not a good death,’ he said.

Once more, Tsubodai did not add anything to the stilted conversation and the khan’s temper came to the surface.

‘What do you want from me, Tsubodai? You have my thanks. Do you think I am pleased that this had to be done?’ Genghis glanced at the sack between Tsubodai’s feet and almost reached for it. ‘There was no other way, general.’

‘I grieve for him, still,’ Tsubodai replied.

Genghis stared at him, then looked away.

‘As you please, Tsubodai. There will be many who grieve. Jebe was his friend, as was Kachiun. His mother is distraught, but they know it was my order.’

‘Still, I am the man who killed the khan’s son,’ Tsubodai said grimly.

Genghis shook his head.

‘He was not my son,’ he said, his voice hard. ‘Put this aside and ride with me to Herat.’

Tsubodai shook his head.

‘You do not need me for that.’

Genghis crushed the swelling sense of anger at the man. He barely understood Tsubodai’s pain, but there was a debt to be repaid and he realised the general could not simply return to the nation.

‘Once more then, Tsubodai,’ he said, his voice hard. ‘For your service, I ask. What do you want from me?’

Tsubodai sighed. He had hoped to find peace when he gave the sword and head to the khan. It had not come.

‘Let me take tumans to the north once more, into the clean cold. I will win cities for you there and wash away what I have done.’

Tsubodai bowed his head at last, staring blankly at the wooden floor as Genghis considered. Jebe had been planning a raid to the north before Jelaudin’s army had attacked at Panjshir. In normal times, Genghis would have sent the two generals away without a thought. The sick misery he saw in Tsubodai troubled him deeply, in part because he felt it himself, but resisted. He had revenged the insults of small kings. The shah was dead, with all but his oldest son, and Genghis had scorched cities from east to west. He searched for a victor’s satisfaction, but could not find it. Somehow, Jochi’s betrayal and death had poisoned the simple pleasures.

After an age, Genghis nodded.

‘Very well, Tsubodai. Take Jebe and Jochi’s men. I would have had to send them far anyway, to have them relearn the discipline I expect of those who follow me.’