As the sun set, father and son stood and watched the shadows move across the faces of the huge stone figures. Behind them, minghaan officers shouted and whistled to their men until the khan's ger was up and the fires lit for the evening meal. The men in the caves would wait another night. Some of them would escape in the darkness, perhaps, though Chagatai had warriors hidden on the other side, waiting for anyone who tried.

As they sat down to eat, Chagatai watched as Baidur crossed his legs and took salt tea in his right hand, the left cupping the elbow automatically. He was a fine young warrior, coming into his prime years.

Chagatai accepted his tea and a plate heaped with pouches of unleavened bread and mutton, well spiced and fragrant.

'I hope you understand now why I must send you away, my son,' he said at last.

Baidur stopped chewing and Chagatai went on.

'This is a beautiful land, ripe and rich. A man could ride all day here. But this is not where the nation will make its history. There is no struggle here, even if you count a few rebels and cattle thieves. No, the future is being written in the sweep west, Baidur. You must be part of that.'

His son did not reply, his eyes dark in the gloom. Chagatai nodded, pleased that he did not waste words. He reached into his deel robe and withdrew a sheaf of bound parchments.

'I sent messages to the khan, my brother, asking that you be allowed to join Tsubodai. He has given me that permission. You will take my first tuman as your own and learn all you can from Tsubodai. He and I have not always fought on the same side, but there is no better teacher. In years to come, the fact that you knew the orlok will be worth much in the eyes of men.'

Baidur swallowed his mouthful with difficulty, bowing his head. It was his greatest wish and he did not know how his father had understood. Loyalty had kept him in the khanate, but his heart had been with the great trek, thousands of miles west and north. He was overcome with gratitude.

'You honour me,' he said, his voice tight.

Chagatai chuckled and reached over to ruffle his son's hair. 'Ride fast, boy. If I know Tsubodai, he will not slow down for anyone.'

'I thought you might send me to Karakorum,' Baidur said.

His father shook his head, his face suddenly bitter.

'There is no future being written there. Trust me in this. It is a place of stagnant water, where nothing moves and no life stirs. No, the future is in the west.'

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The wind moaned and then whispered like a living thing, biting into their lungs as they breathed. Snow fell constantly, though it could not obscure the path. Tsubodai and his men walked their horses along the line of the frozen Moskva river beneath them. The ice was like bone; white and dead in the dark. The city of Moscow lay ahead, its cathedrals and churches rising high on the horizon. Even in the darkness, lights gleamed behind wooden shutters in the walls: thousands of candles lit to celebrate the nativity of Christ. Much of the city was shuttered and closed for the heart of winter, the terrible cold that stole away the old and the weak.

The Mongols trudged on, heads down, hooves and reins muffled in cloth. The river they walked ran right through the centre of the city. It was too wide to guard or block, a natural weakness. Many of the warriors looked up as they passed under a bridge of wood and stone, spanning the icy road in arches that were anchored in huge columns. There was no outcry from the bridge itself. The city nobles had not considered any invading army could be insane enough to walk the ice into their midst.

Only two tumans followed the course of the river into Moscow. Batu and Mongke roamed to the south, raiding towns and making certain there were no forces on their way to intercept the Mongol armies. Guyuk and Kachiun were further north, preventing a relief army from force-marching to save the city. It was not likely. The tumans seemed to be the only ones willing to move in the coldest months. The chilled air was brutal. The cold numbed their faces, hands and feet, leaching away their strength. Yet they endured. Many of them wore deel robes as cloaks over their armour. They slathered thick mutton fat on exposed skin and wrapped themselves in layers of silk and wool and iron, their feet frozen despite the lambswool stuffed into their boots. Many of them would lose toes, even so. Their lips were already raw, gummed shut with frozen spit. Yet they survived, and when the rations ran short, they took blood from their mounts, filling their mouths with the hot liquid that could sustain them. The ponies were thin, though they knew to dig through the snow to crop frozen grass beneath. They too had been bred in a harsh land.

Tsubodai's scouts moved faster than the main force, risking their mounts on the icy ground to bring back the first warning of any organised defences. The city seemed eerily silent, the snow lending such a stillness to the air that Tsubodai could hear hymns being sung. He did not know the language, but the distant voices seemed to suit the cold. He shook his head. The ice road was strangely beautiful in the shadows and moonlight, but it was no place for sentiment. His aim was to crush anyone with the strength to stand before him. Only then could he move on, knowing his flanks and rear were safe.

The city itself was not large. Its cathedrals had been built on high ground above the river, and around them clustered the houses of churchmen and wealthy families. In the moonlight, they could be seen spreading down the hills into a town of smaller buildings, haphazard across the landscape. The river fed them all, gave them life as it would now bring death. Tsubodai's head jerked up as he heard a voice call nearby, high and broken. The panic was unmistakable. They had been seen at last. He was only surprised it had taken so long. The voice yelled and yelled, then was choked off as one of the scouts riding along the banks used the sound to guide himself in. There would be bright red blood on the snow, the first of the night. Yet the watcher had been heard and it was not long before bells began to sound in the distance, tolling a warning through the still darkness. The cathedral was silent, the air heavy with incense issuing from the censer in a trail of white smoke. Grand Duke Yaroslav sat with his family in the pews reserved for him, his head bowed as he listened to the plainsong words of a prayer written eight centuries before.

'If He was not flesh, who was laid in a manger? If He is not God, whom did the angels who came down from heaven glorify?'

The duke was not at peace, no matter how he tried to put the cares of the world aside and take comfort from his faith. Who could know where the damned Mongols would strike next? They moved with incredible speed, making children of the armies he had sent. Three thousand of his finest knights had been slaughtered at the beginning of winter. They had ridden out to find the Mongol army and report their position, not to engage them. They had not come back. All he had were rumours of a bloody streak in the hills, already covered in snow.

Duke Yaroslav twisted his hands together as the heavy incense filled his lungs.

'If He was not flesh, whom did John baptise?' Father Dmitri intoned, his voice strong and resonant in the echoing church.

The benches were full and not just to celebrate the birth of Christ. Yaroslav wondered how many of them had heard of the red-mouthed wolf hunting through the hills and snow. The cathedral was a place of light and safety, though it was cold enough to need the heavy furs. Where better to come on such a night?

'If He is not God, to whom did the Father say: This is my beloved Son?'

The words were comforting, summoning an image of the young Christ. On such a night, Yaroslav knew he should be focusing his thoughts on birth and rebirth, but instead he thought of crucifixion, of pain and agony in a garden, more than a thousand years before.