Genghis nodded slowly as Arslan spoke. It eased him more than he could say to have the old man’s advice once again. He had lost himself for a time with the dream of cities. Hearing Arslan was like a bucket of cold water on his dreams, but he relished it. To hear that voice was almost like being young again, when the world was simpler.

‘When you are afraid and you do nothing, that matters,’ Arslan went on. ‘It eats at men when they think they are cowards. How you raise your sons and daughters matters. The wife who warms you at night matters. The joy you take in being alive, the pleasure of strong drink, companionship and stories – all that matters. But when you are dust, other men go on without you. Let it all go, Genghis, and find peace.’

Genghis smiled at the stern tone.

‘I take it you will not be ruling Samarkand in my name then, old friend.’

Arslan shook his head.

‘Oh, I will take what you offer, but not to be remembered. I will take it because these old bones are tired of sleeping on hard ground. My wife likes it here and I want her to be happy as well. Those are good reasons, Genghis. A man should always care about pleasing his wife.’

Genghis chuckled.

‘I can never tell when you are playing games or not,’ he said.

‘Never, Genghis, I am too old for games. I am almost too old for my wife as well, but that is not important today.’

Genghis slapped him on the shoulder and rose. He almost used his arm to help Arslan to his feet, then withdrew it just before the old general took offence.

‘I will leave you five thousand men. You may have to level part of the city to build a barracks for them. Do not let them get soft, old man.’ He smiled as Arslan showed his disdain for such an idea.

Genghis trotted his mount through the markets to the main gate of Samarkand. Just the thought of riding with the families and the tumans once more was enough to cast aside the feeling of constriction he had suffered within the city. Winter, such as it was, had come again to the lands of the shah, though there were still warm days. Genghis scratched a sore on his hand idly as he guided his horse along the paved road. It would be good to have sweet grass under the hooves once more. Eight tumans waited for him to leave the city, drawn up in battle order on the farmland around Samarkand. Boys reaching fourteen had filled the gaps in the ranks and he had found five thousand good men to leave with Arslan.

Beyond the tumans, the gers were packed onto carts and the people were once again ready to move. He did not know yet where he would take them. It did not matter and he repeated an old nomadic idea to himself as he approached the gate in winter sunlight. They did not have to stand to live, not like those around them. In the tribes, the important parts of life went on whether they were encamped on a sunny river bank, or assaulting an enemy city, or waiting out a cruel winter. He had lost sight of that for a time in Samarkand, but Arslan had helped him to put his thoughts in order.

The crowds in the city kept well back from the man who might order the death of anyone he saw. Genghis hardly noticed their staring faces as he approached the gate and looked out through the open space to the ranks of his warriors.

His pony jerked without warning and Genghis was jolted forward. He saw a man had stepped out of the crowd to grab the leather straps attached to the bit. One hard pull had turned the mount’s head and stopped the khan in his tracks. His guards were drawing their swords and opening their mouths to shout, but Genghis turned too slowly to see a second attacker rush to his side, a yelling face too young for a beard. A knife was shoved up at him, the boy trying to jam it beneath the layered armour into his flesh.

From instinct, Genghis struck the youth hard across the face. In full armour, his forearm was sheathed in plates of beaten iron and the metal ripped open the boy’s cheek, knocking him down. Genghis drew his sword as the crowd seemed to erupt around him. He saw more knives held in fists and lunged at the one holding his horse, punching the blade downwards into his chest. The man he had struck was dying, but he gripped Genghis’ foot and his arm flailed wildly, a blade gashing the khan’s hip. Genghis grunted in pain, lashing out again and this time almost taking off the head. He could hear the attackers yelling all around him, but his guards were moving to protect the khan. They did not know or care particularly which of the crowd were the attackers. They went through them all, hacking men and women aside until bodies lay everywhere.

As Genghis sat panting on his mount, the boy with a torn cheek recovered and leapt at him. One of his guards impaled the boy from behind, then kicked him off the blade so that he sprawled with the rest. The marketplace was empty by then, though the nearby streets still echoed to screams and running feet. Genghis reached down to touch the wound he had taken. He’d known worse in his time. He nodded to the guards, knowing that they would fear his anger for letting him be cut at all. In fact, Genghis had already decided to see them all hanged for their inattention, but the moment to tell them was not when they were within sword’s reach of him and still ready to kill.

Genghis waited until fresh soldiers rode in from the tumans, Tsubodai and Kachiun with them. He ran a hand across his throat as he glanced at the guards and they sagged as they sat their mounts, all the fight going out of them as their weapons were taken.

‘I should have expected it,’ Genghis said, furious with himself. Perhaps the city itself had made him careless. For a man who broke empires, there would always be those who hated him. He should never have relaxed inside a city, even Samarkand. He cursed under his breath at the thought that his enemies had known exactly where to find him for months. That was one benefit of a nomadic life – enemies had to work hard even to locate you.

Kachiun had dismounted to check the dead. Almost forty people had been cut down by the guards and some of them still lived and bled. The general had no interest in finding guilt or innocence, or any pity for them. His brother had been attacked and he was about to order his men to put an end to those who still crawled when he hesitated, holding up a hand.

Two young men had fallen closely together, right by the first attack. Each wore a robe such as those that protected the desert Arabs from sandstorms. They were bare-chested under it, and in death, Kachiun could see the same mark low on their throats. He pulled the cloth further open, then gestured to a warrior to do the same for the rest of the dead. Male and female, they had their clothes torn. Kachiun found six other men with the mark, none of them alive.

Genghis saw him turn to a young Arab standing with Tsubodai.

‘You. What does this mean?’

Yusuf Alghani shook his head, his lips tight.

‘I have never seen it before,’ he replied.

Genghis stared down at the man, knowing that he hid something.

‘It is a word in your writing,’ he said. ‘Read it for me.’

Yusuf made a show of inspecting the first man Kachiun had found. He read it right to left and Kachiun could see his hands were shaking.

Master, it is the word for serenity. T hat is all I know.

Genghis nodded as if he accepted it. When Yusuf did not look at the others, he made a hard sound in his throat and dismounted, showing his teeth as weight came on his leg.

‘Hold him,’ he said.

Before Yusuf could react, Tsubodai’s sword was at his throat, the metal warm against his skin.

‘You knew they would all be the same, boy,’ Genghis said. ‘Tell me who might wear this word on their chests. Tell me and live.’

Even with the threat, Yusuf’s eyes still moved around the deserted market, looking for anyone who might be watching. He could see no one, but he knew someone would be there. His words would find their way back to the men who had ordered a kill.