As soon as he saw what was happening, Settan went all out to open a gap. It was his only chance. All the horses were at the end of their endurance, and with a cry of rage, Zan began to drift back. There was nothing he could do, though he threw his stones with furious strength, managing to hit Settan's mount on the haunches with one, while the other disappeared in the dust.
Batu cursed under his breath. He could not let Settan leave him behind. He kicked and whipped his horse until they drew level and then Batu went half a length ahead. He felt strong, though his lungs were full of dust that he would cough up for days to come.
The final corner was in sight and Batu knew he could win. Yet he had known from the beginning that winning would not be enough for him. Tsubodai would be on the walls, Batu was certain. With one of his Uriankhai so close to the finishing line, the general would no doubt be cheering him on. Batu wiped his eyes, clearing them of gritty dust. He had no love for his father's memory. It did not change his hatred for the general who had cut Jochi's throat. Perhaps Ogedai would be there too, watching the young man he had raised.
Batu allowed Settan to cut inside him as they rushed towards the corner. The edge of the wall was marked by a marble post, decorated with a stone wolf. Judging it all finely, Batu let Settan come up beside him, almost head to head for the finish line. He saw Settan grin as he scented a chance to go through.
As they reached the corner, Batu wrenched his reins to the right and slammed Settan against the post. The impact was colossal. Both horse and rider stopped almost dead as the Uriankhai boy's leg shattered and he screamed.
Batu rode on, smiling. He did not look back as the high sound faded behind him.
As he crossed the line, he wished his father could have lived to see it, to take pride in him. His eyes were wet with tears and he scrubbed at them, blinking furiously and telling himself it was just the wind and the dust.
CHAPTER EIGHT
As the sun sank towards the horizon, Ogedai breathed out slowly. There had been times when he thought he would not live to stand in his city on this day. His hair was oiled and tied into a club on his neck. His deel was simple and dark blue, without ornament or pretension. He wore it belted, over leggings and herders' soft boots of sheepskin, tied with thongs. He touched his father's sword at his waist, taking comfort from it.
At the same time, he felt a spasm of irritation at the choices his father had left him. If Jochi had become khan, it would have established a line of the first born. Instead, the great khan had made Ogedai his heir, the third of four sons. In the shadow of that man, Ogedai's own line might wither. He could not expect the nation simply to accept his eldest son Guyuk as khan after him. More than twenty others had a blood claim from Genghis, and Chagatai was just one of the more dangerous. Ogedai feared for his son in such a tangle of thorns and teeth. Yet Guyuk had survived so far and perhaps that showed the sky father's approval of him. Ogedai took a slow breath.
'I am ready, Baras'aghur,' he told his servant. 'Stand back now.'
He strode forward into a swelling sea of noise, onto a balcony of polished oak. His drummers thundered his arrival and the warriors of his Guard tuman roared and beat their armour, making a clash of sound that could be heard across the city. Ogedai smiled, acknowledging the crowd as he took his seat overlooking the vast amphitheatre. His wife Torogene sat down beside him, with Baras'aghur fussing over the folds of her Chin dress. Unseen by the watching masses, Ogedai reached out. She took his hand and squeezed it. They had survived two years of intrigue, poison, attempts on their lives and, finally, open insurrection. Ogedai's face and body were stiff and battered from his exertions, but he was in one piece.
As the crowd waited patiently, the wrestlers who had survived the first two bouts came to take their places in the centre ground below Ogedai. Two hundred and fifty-six men formed up in pairs ready for their last struggle that day. Bets flashed around the rows of seats, from shouted instructions to wooden tokens or even Chin printed money and coins. It was possible to bet on any aspect of the competition and the entire nation followed the sport. The weak and injured, the ageing and unlucky, had already been weeded out. Those who remained were the strongest and fastest in a nation which revered martial skill above all else. It was his father's nation and creation, his father's vision of a people: horse and warrior, sword and bow together.
Ogedai turned in his seat as Guyuk stepped onto the balcony. He felt his heart contract in the pride and sadness he always felt on seeing the young man. Guyuk was tall and handsome, fit to command a thousand, perhaps even a tuman, in peacetime. Beyond that, he had no spark of tactical awareness, or the subtle touch with his men that would have had them following him into flames. He was in all ways an unremarkable officer and he had not yet taken a single wife, as if continuing the khan's own line meant nothing to him. The fact that he resembled Genghis in face and eyes only made his weaknesses harder to bear for his father. There were times when Ogedai could not understand his son at all.
Guyuk bowed elegantly to his parents and took his seat, staring out in wonder at the massed crowd. He had known little of the struggle in the palace. He had barricaded himself into a room with two friends and some servants, but no one had come to that part of the palace. Apparently, they had drunk themselves into a stupor. Despite Ogedai's relief at seeing him alive, it summed his son up, that no one had considered him worth killing.
Temuge rushed by the rear of the balcony, almost hidden from view by a swarm of his runners and scribes. Ogedai heard him snapping out orders in his waspish voice and allowed himself a grin as he remembered the conversation with his uncle weeks before. Despite the old fool's fears, Ogedai had won through. He reminded himself to offer the libraries of Karakorum to Temuge once again, as soon as the festival was over.
In the great oval, the twilight began the slow summer drift to grey. Because of the low city walls, the huge structure could be seen from the sea of grass outside. It would not be long before a thousand torches were lit, making a shape of light that all the nation could witness from the plains. Ogedai looked forward to the moment, the visible signal that he was khan. It also meant Karakorum was finished at last, barring the bloodstains that waited for rain. Perhaps that too was fitting.
Far below, Temuge signalled the wrestling judges. After a short song to the earth mother, the judges blew horns and the men crashed together, their hands and legs moving swiftly to take and break grips. For some, it was over in an instant, as with Baabgai's opponent. For others, the match became a test of stamina as they heaved and sweated, long red marks appearing on their skin.
Ogedai looked down on the field of athletes. He knew Temuge had planned the events to the last detail. He wondered idly if his uncle would manage the whole festival without flaws. His people were warriors and shepherds to the last man and woman – not sheep, never sheep. Still, it was interesting to see.
The final pair collapsed with legs kicking to a roar and a howl from the crowd. A hundred and twenty-eight men were victors and they stood, flushed and pleased, before the nation. They bowed to Ogedai on the balcony and he got to his feet and raised his sword hand to them, showing his pleasure.
More horns sounded, great Chin tubes of brass and bronze that droned notes across the field. The wrestlers retired at a jog and the heavy gate swung open, revealing the main street of the city beyond. Ogedai squinted to see, just as thirty thousand others did their best to catch a glimpse.