Toghrul Khan was indicating a seat beside him for his foster son, and Temujin sat down. Now, for the first time, he turned his attention to the others. Taliph was a picture of affected Persian elegance, wearing a short embroidered coat of red silk, high-collared and tight and jewelled, coming only to the knees. Below the coat were elegant trousers of pale yellow silk, which ended in narrow boots of red leather. On his head was a high twisted turban of yellow silk, through which was thrust a white plume. His hands blinded the eye with the splintering light of many rings. Under the turban, which greatly became him, his dark thin face was more subtle and sensitive than ever. He smiled at Temujin with a gay and comradely air, and lifted a cup to him in a silent toast.
Beside him sat his lady, complementing his costume by being dressed in yellow silk also, with a loose red scarf over her black hair. She, too, was veilless, and her small white face with its full pouting lips and dark eyes was quite entrancing. She gave Temujin a coquettish but ribald smile, and tossed her head. He smiled in return, as they both shared a delightful secret, which they would discuss at a more propitious and private moment.
Toghrul Khan, bald and little and emaciated, was clad in blue and white, and a white turban had been wrapped about his head. His old wizened face smiled sweetly; his eyes beamed with paternal affection upon Temujin, and his voice was soft. But never had he appeared so evil to the young man.
And then his attention was caught by the old man in his white and crimson robes, and Temujin, startled, told himself that never had he seen so beautiful and gentle a face, so illuminated and kind, despite its furrows and its weary expression. The skin was as yellow as ancient ivory, and the bare skull was quite bald. But the eyes, shining as though with some inward light, were gentle and peaceful, and full of wisdom and ancient tenderness. It was evident that he was a Chinese, for his attitude was intensely quiet and infinitely calm. He was like an ivory statue of a Buddha, who had witnessed centuries in understanding silence. He wore no jewels. On his right hand sat Azara.
Toghrul Khan turned to him and said: “This is one of my most promising vassals, lord, a young man of parts and valor. It is he who hath made our caravan routes safe, over the territory he hath conquered. I owe him much.”
He laid his hand affectionately on Temujin’s shoulder, and in a voice of reverence he said:
“My son, this is a prince of Cathay, to whom I am only a son in the faith. He is Chin T’ian, brother to the Chin Emperor, and the Nestorian Christian Bishop of Cathay. He hath done me the most awesome honor of partaking of my poor hospitality, while he doth discuss with me the welfare of my Christian subjects in my domains. He is also one of my most honored guests at the wedding of my daughter.”
He bowed his head reverently on his breast. The bishop smiled sweetly at Temujin. The smile seemed to run like rays of light over his yellow face. But he did not speak. Temujin stared at him frankly, his heart faintly stirring in a strange emotion. Because of the strangeness of this emotion, he did not know whether he was annoyed or pleased.
After a few moments, he was embarrassed, aware of his staring. His eye shifted. It was caught by a blaze of light. Chastely but magnificently, on an otherwise empty wall, hung the gemmed golden cross he had seen in Toghrul Khan’s tent. Below it stood a table with a great lamp upon it, like a moon. There was something ostentatious in this lighting, and Temujin observed it, though without understanding. The crescents-and-stars were conspicuously absent from the room.
He said: “Among my people there are many Christians.”
The bishop spoke. His voice was gentle and low, like music. “And thou dost not interfere with their religion, my son?”
Temujin frowned a little. “Why should I?” he asked, bluntly. “I ask nothing of any man but that he serve me first, above all other men, and all gods.”
The bishop’s face changed a trifle, became faintly sad. But his eyes, earnest and tender, fixed themselves upon Temujin’s face.
“Men must serve God first, and if they do so, with faith and sincerity, they cannot but serve men.”
Temujin thought this somewhat obscure. While he was pondering this, the bishop spoke again:
“Hast thou a Christian priest among thy people?”
“Nay, I think not. My Christians are not overly devout. They attend the sacrifices, though I have been told that sacrifices are an abomination in their sight. If this is so, then they conceal their aversion very cleverly.” He laughed. Taliph laughed, and also his lady. But Toghrul Khan affected to be severe, and pursed his lips. But Azara, who could look at no one but Temujin, did not appear to have heard his words, but only his voice.
Temujin, suddenly remembering that this bishop was a great prince of a great house in a great empire, ceased to laugh, and was filled with wonder. It amazed him that such a man could sit like this, humbly and quietly, among such as Toghrul Khan and Taliph and himself, and the two women. He began to doubt the authenticity of his princehood. He looked sharply at the bishop, who, alone of the men, was not smiling. He seemed to be filled with sorrow and meditation. But he said nothing.
Still puzzled, it was a relief to him to concentrate his attention upon Azara. And again, across a space that was as wide as eternity yet no more distant than the close beat of their hearts, they gazed long and strangely at each other. There was no one else in the room, in the world. Azara’s pale face grew even paler; her lips parted with the anguished grief of a child; her nostrils distended with quickened breath, and her eyes widened with a silent and desperate prayer to him for help. Once her hands fluttered, as though they were about to extend themselves to him, and her lips trembled, as though she were about to cry out. There was no decorous and maidenly modesty in her manner now, no coquetry, no blushing coyness, such as he had remembered from their last meeting. Now she was merely a woman, agonized and full of despair, calling to her beloved, believing that he would not fail her nor betray her, calling simply and pleadingly, without shame.
Temujin’s face darkened, his nostrils flared. He heard the call throughout his body and his mind, and understood it. Now he comprehended the reason for her pallor and thinness, the wide and suffering misery in her eyes. He fixed his gaze upon hers, calling to her, promising her, assuring her that his love was her sword and her shield, and that nothing should come between his heart and hers. And as he so called, he was filled with exultation, an ecstatic joy. But part of his mind stood detached, wondering, telling him that never had he felt so about any other woman, and would never feel so again for any but Azara. He was amazed. Even though he saw the delicate pulsing of the violet veins in Azara’s throat, saw the transparency of her young shoulders and the wondrous pale brightness of her hair and the light in her great black eyes, he felt no urgency in his body, no lust for her, no burning desire. He felt only a great and passionate tenderness, a profound and shaking love. And then he knew that in all the world before he had never really loved any woman but this, and with this surety came another: that he would never love so again.
His eyes glowed with his thoughts, and Azara saw them. Her fluttering hands grew still, and lay in her silver lap. A faint color, like dawn, came into her white lips. The anguish abated in her eyes. She smiled, and Temujin heard the faint indrawing of her breath. And now she looked at him as a woman might look at a god, all her soul shining in her face.
The lady of the litter had, of all of them, observed this deep and passionate interchange between the barbarian from the desert and her husband’s beautiful sister. At first an expression of outraged jealousy flashed in her eyes. This subsided. Now she began to smile evilly, and beneath her black lashes she thoughtfully regarded her father-in-law, and then her husband. Her smile deepened. She seemed about to laugh aloud. The evil brightened in her eyes until it became like the gleam of a sword. Mirth quivered over her features like the reflection of sunlit water.
In the meantime, the servants had been bringing in the feast: delicate lamb stewed in rich and spicy sauces; tender fowl swimming in b
oiled cream; bread as tender and white as milk. And mounds of figs and dates, combs of golden honey, pastries full of almonds and thick Turkish preserves, bowls of tinted fruit, jugs of spiced wine and strong bitter Turkish spirit. Temujin, accustomed to the coarse boiled mutton and horseflesh and boiled millet and sour kumiss of his people, ate ravenously, though assuring himself scornfully that the riders of the steppes and the barrens could never survive on such decadent and luscious fare, fit only for women and poets and eunuchs.
As usual, he drank too much. It seemed to him that the cool wine might drown out the wild exultation, rapture and passion that threatened to break from the confines of his flesh and ignite the air. He could hear the violent hammering of his heart, the singing pulses in his temples and throat. But the wine did not cool him. It merely inflamed him. The atmosphere began to swim in ecstatic light, which brightened like a halo about the head of Azara and filled her eyes with radiance. Now he felt that old and intoxicating conviction that he held the world in the palm of his hand, that he was taller in stature than the highest star, that the secrets of heaven and earth were his, that he was invincible, omnipotent and clothed in terror and power.
Something of this terrible conviction seemed to emanate from his body, flame from his eyes. Taliph, in his suave and smiling hatred, had plotted to humiliate him, to reveal him to his womenfolk and his father as a boastful and ignorant barbarian, who must be squashed under the heel like a poisonous worm. But though the malignant smile remained fixed on his features, he was possessed with a sort of horror, as though he were laboring through the mazes of an appalling nightmare. For this young Mongol, sitting there on the divan in his borrowed finery, had a splendor and frightfulness about him which was evident even to the envious eyes of a mortal hatred.
Taliph, aghast, looked about him at the others. And he saw that his father was regarding Temujin with the narrowed eyes of unnerved speculation, that the bishop was gazing at him with fascinated absorption, that his own lady was staring at him with open lewdness and desire, and that Azara was looking at him like a woman transfixed by the awful majesty of a god.
The young Karait noble shook his head, as though to free his eyes from blinding cobwebs. He said to himself: I have been put under a spell. I am dreaming. This man is a wild-eyed serpent, a ravening wolf, from the barrens, illiterate and uncouth and odoriferous, an empty whirlwind which will leave nothing behind.
It humiliated and enraged his cool heart that he, son of the mighty Toghrul Khan, gave this barbarian the honor of his smallest thoughts.
Yet, when Temujin smiled at him with open friendliness, his teeth and green eyes blazing in the light of the rosy lamps, Taliph felt a stir in him, a swift and astounding response, a hypnotized tremor of his veins. He thought: he is a wizard, who can seize men’s souls in his hands. For one sharp instant, he felt regret that he hated him. And the next moment, scornful amusement that he could experience this magnetic and mysterious pull.
Temujin continued to drink and gorge himself. He assured himself solemnly that before retiring that night he must remember to thrust his finger far down his throat. Otherwise, he would be sick on the morrow. Now his thoughts swam in colored and brilliant circles through the room, visible to his inflamed eyes. Blue and scarlet and moonbright and golden, they moved with concentric motions, spinning about Azara’s head, about the head of the bishop. Finally he saw no one but these two.
Suddenly it seemed to him that the bishop’s face shone like the moon at midnight, soft and beaming and gently resplendent, filling all space with a luminous brightness. And though the bishop was not speaking, it seemed to Temujin that he had spoken, and that the warm air of the room was full of the ringing of muted bells. He put down his cup, and openly, for a long time, stared at the old man.
Toghrul Khan had been speaking to his son in his low honeyed accents. He was in the midst of some long involved sentence, when Temujin’s voice, harsh and loud and barbaric, pierced through Toghrul Khan’s words like a sword through silk.
“My lord,” he said to the bishop, “thou art not like other men. There is a beam on thy face, like the beam of the sun.”
The bishop smiled. His eyes burned with gentle tenderness. Toghrul Khan was affronted. But Taliph laughed lightly and derisively at this vulgarity, and his lady, who now hated every one in the room, including Temujin, joined him in his laughter.
“Nay, my son,” said the bishop, gently, “I am but a mortal man, no greater than the least. If there is a beam upon my face, the beam cometh from thy heart. Before God, there are no princes, illuminated and splendid, no beggars, with sores and rags. There are only men.”
He turned to Azara, beside him, and touched her cheek with his hand.
“Thou dost believe me, my daughter?”
She smiled at him, her whole face alight with modest love. She bent her head.
Temujin stared. Through his own excitation, through the fog of the wine he had drunk, he could still think. Now he understood many things. He understood why the two women were veilless, and why they sat openly with men at their meal. To this strange priest, women were equal with men, and all men were equal with each other. They were all but common humanity, without distinction. And then he also understood why the Moslem envoys of the Caliph of Bokhara were not at this meal.
He was astounded, and disconcerted. He blinked, believing that he had heard something fantastic, and that laughter must follow. But no one laughed. Toghrul Khan had bowed his turbaned head modestly. Taliph was fixedly regarding his folded hands. The lady of the litter had bowed her head, also, with becoming humility. But Azara gazed trustfully at the bishop, as a child might gaze at her father.
Then Temujin burst into a loud and contemptuous laugh. He shook his red head at the bishop.
“Thine are strange words, lord, exceedingly strange words to come from the lips of a prince.”
The bishop smiled upon him. “Nay, I am no prince, Temujin.”
So! thought Temujin, suddenly, angered and derisive. This was no prince, but only a beggar priest, no better than his own Shaman Kokchu! His anger rose to rage against Toghrul Khan, who had humiliated him, by making him sit down with a beggar. Perhaps the old khan believed that such was good enough for his vassal! His vassal! Temujin’s fists clenched. His face became purple with his violence, and his eyes shot forth red flames. His vassal! The day would come when the khan would bow before him, and kiss his feet!
Toghrul Khan turned affectionately to his foster son. “Temujin,” he said, in his sweet voice, “thou dost not understand. Among us, the Christians, there are no distinctions among men. The prince doth regard himself as the least of his subjects, and only a man in the sight of God. Our beloved bishop is brother to the Chin Emperor, yet he believeth that he is no better than the humblest slave that walketh in the halls of his royal brother’s palace. A great general is ofttimes less than his meanest soldier, in the eyes of the Lord. Only he is great who is lowly and good and full of virtue and kindness.”
Temujin stared at them all, incredulous, disbelieving. He shook his head as though benumbed. Then he said again, loudly, repudiatingly: “This is madness! I have not heard aright!”
The bishop leaned towards him, and laid his withered old hand on his knee. “Let me tell thee, my son.
“I see thou knowest who and what the Christians are. Thou shakest thy head. Thou dost mean thou knowest they call themselves Christians, but do not know why? I will tell thee.
“Many centuries ago, twelve long centuries ago, there lived in a certain small nation, and born to a certain small people, a Man. But he was not like all other men. God had sent Him as His messenger of love and pity and mercy to all the world. He came to us, not blindly, not without understanding, but attended by angels, knowing Who He was, and why He had come. He lived but a little while, hardly to become much older than thee. But in those short years He laid a cross of Light upon the dark face of the earth, and it was never again to be the same. For He had given it His blood, and h
ad redeemed it from the blackness of death, and brought man from out the tomb into the light of the eternal Day.
“He had said unto all men: ‘Ye are my brothers, my children, flesh of My flesh and soul of My soul. I am yours, and you are Mine. I have shown ye the Way. Follow Me, and ye shall not die, nay, not even though the world perisheth, and the stars of the heavens are rolled up like a scroll, and forgotten.’”
Temujin listened, his mouth fallen open, the wine-filled goblet tipped in his hand, and spilling. His brows had drawn together. His expression was one of profound incredulity and bewilderment.
Then, when the bishop had finished, he exclaimed: “This is a mad story! If a great Spirit had indeed come upon this earth, then surely all men would have known it, and there would be but one faith, and one joy, and one peace!”
The bishop shook his head sorrowfully. “Nay, that is not the way of God. For such would have destroyed the free will with which every man is born. Each man must find his way to the Cross of Light himself, stumbling through the caverns and the darkness of the world on his own lonely journey, guided only by faith and love and hope. Each man must undertake his own pilgrimage, for only he can save his own soul.”
Temujin laughed derisively. “It is a mad story! And only madmen can believe in it! It is a story that must be told at midnight, in the darkness, for in the light of full day it doth ring foolishly on the ears, refuted by all the things in the world.”
“Nay,” almost whispered the bishop, looking at him with his illumined eyes, “the world is refuted by it. All its institutions, its cruelties, its violences, its hatred, its death and its agony, its ignorance and its blindness, its monstrousness of man against man—all these are refuted and destroyed by the story of the coming of God.”