He rubbed his eyes roughly and found a smear of moisture on his gloves that made him sigh. Kachiun had been a friend. His death had brought home the fact that Tsubodai too was getting old.

'This is my last campaign,' he murmured to the figure in the pyre. He could see Kachiun in his blackened armour, alone in a furnace of yellow-gold. 'When I am done, I will bring your ashes home, old friend.'

'He was a great man,' Batu said.

Tsubodai gave a start. He had not heard him approach over the crackling flames. Fury welled up in him that Batu would bring his petty bitterness even to the funeral of Kachiun. He began to reply, but Batu held up an open palm.

'No mockery, orlok. I did not know half his story until I heard it from the shaman.'

Tsubodai stifled his retort and held Batu's steady gaze for a few more moments before looking back to the pyre. Batu spoke again, his voice gentle with awe.

'He hid with Genghis and other children from their enemies. They were hardened by starvation and fear. From that family, from those brothers, we all spring. I understand that, orlok. You too were there for some of it. You have seen a nation born. I can hardly imagine such a thing.' Batu sighed and gripped the bridge of his nose between his fingers, rubbing the tiredness out. 'I hope there is a tale to tell when it is my turn in the flames.'

Tsubodai looked at him, but Batu was already walking away through the snow. The air was clean and cold, promising more snow on the way.

PART THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The dancers came to a halt, sweat gleaming on their bodies, the bells on their wrists and ankles falling silent. Incense was strong in the air, pouring in wreaths of white smoke out of censers as they swung at the foot of the marble stairs. The influence of Greece was everywhere in the palace, from columns of fluted marble and busts of King Bela and his ancestors, to the scanty costumes of the dancing girls waiting with their heads bowed. The walls themselves were decorated in gold leaf from Egypt and blue lapis lazuli from the Afghan hills. The ceiling stretched above them in a great dome that dominated the river city of Esztergom. In the inlaid images, it proclaimed the glory of the risen Christ, and of course the glory of the Hungarian king.

The courtiers prostrated themselves, pressed as close as bees in a hive, so that their bodies covered the tiled floor. Only the martial lords remained standing around the walls, looking at each other with poorly concealed irritation. Among them was Josef Landau, master of the Livonian Brothers. He glanced at his brother-knight, a man who had recently become his commanding officer. Conrad von Thuringen was a powerful figure in all senses, with the build to handle the enormous longsword he wore and a black beard shot through with grey that did nothing to reduce his physical menace. Von Thuringen was the grand master of the Teutonic knights, an order that had been formed in the city of Acre, near Galilee. He bowed only to priests. The pomp and glitter of King Bela's court made little impression on a man who had dined with the Holy Roman Emperor and even Pope Gregory himself.

Josef was a little in awe of the grizzled commander. If the Teutonic Knights had not agreed to amalgamate, his Brothers of Livonia would have been disbanded after their losses in war. The double-headed black eagle he now wore had its twin on Conrad's chest. Together, their landholdings made them almost the equal of the king who made them wait on him like servants. Yet they served a higher power and the delay only served to tighten Josef's nerves and temper.

King Bela's seneschal began to recite the titles of his master and Josef saw Von Thuringen's eyes flicker upwards in frustration. The Holy Roman Emperor ruled a hundred territories, as far-flung as Italy and Jerusalem. King Bela of Hungary could not match those possessions. It pleased Josef that his commander had little patience for vanities. Such things were of the world and the Teutonic Order forced their gaze to heaven, so that the venal sins of men were far beneath them. Josef touched the cross of black and gold that he wore on his chest, proud that his Brothers of Livonia had been taken up by a noble order. If they had not been, he thought he might have put away his armour and sword and become a wandering monk, with a begging bowl and rags to serve the Christ. At times when politics hung as thick in the air as incense, such a life still appealed to him.

The seneschal finished his litany of titles and the crowd in the palace hall grew tense for the arrival of their master. Josef smiled to see Conrad scratch the side of his mouth in boredom, where a sore had scabbed over. Horns sounded a low note across the city to announce the arrival of the king. Josef wondered if the peasants in the markets were meant to prostrate themselves as well. The idea made his own mouth twitch, but he controlled himself as King Bela entered at last, striding to the top of the marble steps, so that he was almost the height of a man above them all.

The king was blond-bearded and wore his hair to his shoulders. A gold crown sat firmly on his head and his pale blue eyes looked out from under it. As his gaze travelled across them, both Josef Landau and Conrad von Thuringen bowed, the angle carefully chosen. King Bela did not acknowledge their presence beyond a brief nod, then took his place on a throne decorated in the same gold and blue as the walls. It glittered behind him as he was handed the ceremonial regalia of his monarchy, including a great staff of gold. As Josef watched, the king lifted it and let it fall three times, striking the ground. The seneschal stood back and some other servant dressed almost as richly came forward to address the crowd.

'There will be no judgments today, no court. The king has spoken. Let those who have such business remove themselves from his presence. You may petition the master of the court at noon.'

Josef could see anger and frustration on the faces of many of the men and women who rose from prostration and turned away. They had more sense than to let the king see their response to his edict. Josef could imagine how they had bribed and waited to get into that room, only to be told to leave before a word was spoken about their cases. He saw one young woman in tears as she left and he frowned to himself. The room emptied quickly, until only a dozen or so men remained, all senior lords or knights.

'The Cuman Lord Koten is summoned!' cried the seneschal.

Some of the lords looked askance at each other, but Josef noted that Conrad appeared relaxed. When their eyes met, the older man shrugged very slightly, all the answer he could give with the king's gaze on them.

Doors at the back opened and a small man walked in, in many ways the opposite of the king above him. Koten's skin was almost as dark as the Moors of Jerusalem to Josef's eyes. He had the sunken face and wiry build of a man who had never known more food than he needed to stay alive, a rarity in that court. His eyes were fierce and he bowed only a fraction deeper than Conrad and Josef had before him.

King Bela rose from his throne and spoke for the first time that morning.

'My lords, honoured knights, freemen. The Tartars have crossed the mountains.'

He repeated the words in Russian and Latin, a demonstration of his scholarship.

Conrad and Josef both crossed themselves at the words, with Conrad going on to kiss a heavy gold ring he wore on his left hand. Josef knew it contained a tiny relic of the True Cross from Calvary. He could only wish he had such a talisman of power to soothe his own nerves.

The reaction of Koten was to lean his head to one side and spit on the floor at his feet. The king and his courtiers froze at the action and high points of colour appeared in Bela's cheeks. Before he could act, perhaps to order the man to lick up his own spittle, Koten spoke.