‘Why did you not run?’ Genghis said to the man. He spoke in the Chin language and the man raised his head and smiled wearily, before answering in the same tongue.
‘This is my home, Temujin.’
Genghis stiffened to hear his childhood name from a stranger. The sword jerked in his hand from instinct, but the man on the bench raised empty palms slowly before letting them fall.
‘I will take it down, you know,’ Genghis told him. ‘I will tip the stones off the cliffs so that no one will even remember there was once a fortress in these mountains.’
The Old Man shrugged.
‘Of course you will. Destruction is all you know.’
Tsubodai stood very close, looming over the man on the bench and ready to kill at the first sharp movement. He did not seem a threat, but his eyes were dark under heavy brows and his shoulders looked massive despite the lines of age on his face. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Genghis sheathe his sword and Tsubodai did not dare turn away as the khan sat on the bench, blowing air from his lips in relief.
‘Still, I am surprised you did not run,’ Genghis said.
The Old Man chuckled.
‘When you have given your life to building something, perhaps then you will understand; I do not know.’ His voice took on a bitter tinge as he went on, ‘No, you would not understand, even then.’
Genghis smiled, then roared with laughter until he had to wipe his eyes. The Old Man watched him, his face twisting into a mask of hatred.
‘Ah, I needed to laugh,’ Genghis said. ‘I needed to sit in a garden surrounded by dead women and have an Assassin tell me I have built nothing in my life.’ He chuckled again and even Tsubodai smiled, though his blade remained ready.
The Old Man of the Mountains had intended to pour scorn on the khan before going to his death with dignity intact. To have the man guffaw in his face made him flush, his sense of cool superiority torn apart.
‘You think you have achieved something with your life?’ the Old Man hissed. ‘You think you will be remembered?’
Genghis shook his head as amusement threatened to overwhelm him again. He was still chuckling as he stood up once more.
‘Kill this old fool for me, would you, Tsubodai? He is nothing but a bag of wind.’
The Assassin spluttered in rage as he tried to reply, but Tsubodai chopped down, leaving him gurgling in his own blood. Genghis had already dismissed the man from his mind.
‘They left me a warning, with the village they destroyed, Tsubodai. I can do no less for them, if any still survive. I want them to remember the cost of attacking me. Have the men start on the roof and pitch the tiles and stones off the cliffs. I want nothing left here to show they ever had a home.’
Tsubodai nodded, bowing his head.
‘Your will, my lord khan,’ he said.
Jelaudin lit a cone of incense to his father, thinking of him on the anniversary of his passing. His brothers saw tears in his eyes as he straightened and spoke soft words on the morning breeze,
‘Who will give life to bones when they are dust? He will give them life who made them first.’ He paused and lowered himself, touching his forehead to the ground as he honoured the shah who, in death, had become the light of his son’s followers.
Jelaudin knew he had changed in the year since his despair on the tiny island of the Caspian. He had found his calling and many of the men who had come to defend the faith regarded him as a holy man. They had grown in numbers, travelling for hundreds of miles to join his war against the invading khan. He sighed as he failed to keep his mind clear for prayer on this day of all days. His brothers had become his staff officers, though they too seemed to regard him almost with reverence. Yet for all the faith, someone had to provide food and tents and weapons for those who had none. It was for those things that he had answered an invitation to meet a prince of Peshawar. They had met only once as boys in Bukhara, when both were spoiled and fat with sweetmeats. Jelaudin had only a hazy memory of the boy and no knowledge of the man he had become. Still, the prince ruled a region where the fields were rich with grain and Jelaudin had come further south than he had ever known. He had walked until his sandals fell apart, then further, until the soles of his feet were as leathery as his shoes had once been. Rains had quenched his thirst and the hot sun had burned him thin, making his eyes fierce over a beard which had grown thick and black.
Smoke drifted up from the brazier as he remembered his father. The shah would be proud of his son, Jelaudin thought, if mystified at the ragged robes he chose to wear. His father would not understand that he now disdained any show of wealth and felt the cleaner for it. When Jelaudin looked back on the soft life he had led, he could only shudder. Now he read the Koran and prayed and fasted until his thoughts were all on vengeance and the army that swelled around him. He could hardly imagine the vain young man he had been, with his fine black horse and clothes of silk and gold. All those things were gone and he had replaced them with faith that burned hot enough to destroy all the enemies of God.
When he turned from the smoke, Jelaudin saw his brothers waited patiently with their heads bowed. He rested his hand on Tamar’s shoulder as he passed, striding up the steps to the prince’s palace. Armoured soldiers averted their eyes from him, then stared after the ragged figure who had come to see their master. No one raised a hand to stop the holy man who had brought an army to Peshawar. Jelaudin walked with firm steps until he reached the audience hall. Slaves drew open the doors and he did not bow as he saw the man who had called him to his home.
The rajah of Peshawar was a slim warrior, wearing a silk tunic cut with a sash that fell loosely by his hip, barely covering the golden hilt of a sword. His features were soft and fleshy, despite his narrow waist, and there was little to remind Jelaudin of the boy he had met so long ago. As Jelaudin approached, the Indian prince sent away two advisers and stepped down from a throne to bow.
Jelaudin raised him with one hand, though the gesture pleased him.
‘Are we not equals, Nawaz? You do me great honour with your hospitality. My men have not eaten so well for months.’
The young rajah flushed with pleasure. His gaze wandered over Jelaudin’s dark brown feet, made hard with callus and dirt. Jelaudin grinned, wondering how he would have received such a ragged visitor when he was the son of Khwarezm.
‘I have heard wonderful things, Jelaudin,’ the younger man replied at last. ‘Men from my own guard have volunteered their service against this foreign khan.’
‘They are welcome, my friend, but I need supplies more than men. If you have horses and carts to offer me, I will fall on your neck with gratitude. If you have food for my army, I will even kiss those golden slippers you wear.’
Prince Nawaz flushed even deeper at the wry tone, overcome.
‘You shall have all those things. I ask only that you let me ride with you when you go north.’
Jelaudin weighed the young man, seeing in him a flicker of the same fire that sustained his army outside the palace. They burned, these young ones, whether they were rich or poor, blessed or cursed in their lives. They wanted to be led. That was the great secret he had discovered, that the right words would ignite them to a fervour that could never again be put out. Warmed by it, they would turn against their tribes, even their families, to follow him. He had witnessed fathers walking away from weeping wives and children without looking back as they came to him. If his father had ever discovered the right words, Jelaudin was sure he could have led his armies to the end of the world.
Jelaudin closed his eyes briefly. He was exhausted from the long march over mountains and even the sight of the river Indus that fed a continent had not banished his weariness. At first, he had walked because he did not have a horse. After that, he had walked because to do so impressed his men. Yet the miles and hills had sapped him and it was tempting to ask for just one night in a cool bed before he sent his brothers scurrying around to feed the army and he had to walk those hills again. He resisted, knowing that it would lessen him in the prince’s eyes. The young man did not feel his equal, no matter that he dressed in a robe that a beggar might scorn. Instead, Nawaz saw his faith and was humbled in its presence.