“Thou hast taught the people to despise obedience,” repeated Subodai. “Unless thou dost retract, I cannot promise to hold them together until the return of the lord, Temujin.”
Jamuga bent his head. He sank into profound thought. Subodai waited. Then Jamuga spoke slowly and heavily, as though thinking aloud:
“Let us suppose that Temujin doth not return. In that event, I shall be khan until another is elected. I shall then abrogate many of Temujin’s laws, which I believe are cruel and stupid. Will this cause the disintegration of our people?”
Subodai said softly: “But our lord is still alive, and the people know it. Thou hast flouted his laws of obedience and authority. But I cannot argue with thee. I know only obedience.”
Jamuga cried out: “Canst thou not reason, Subodai?”
“I know only obedience,” repeated Subodai gravely. “Only by obedience can a people survive.”
“If Temujin commanded thee to commit a folly, to destroy wantonly, to kill thyself, to lead our people to death, wouldst thou obey?”
“I would,” replied Subodai, simply.
“O God!” groaned Jamuga. He rubbed his forehead distractedly. “We are a generation of fools!”
Subodai said nothing.
Jamuga stood up and paced the floor. His face grew more pinched and haggard. Finally he stopped before Subodai, and spoke in a fainting voice:
“I cannot retract. That is my final word.”
Subodai saluted. “So be it, lord,” he said quietly.
Alone, Jamuga said aloud: “I have done what is right! I am certain of this.”
He lay down and tried to sleep, but it was no use. Temujin entered his thoughts. What would he do? What would he say?
He was so accustomed to visitors now that it did not surprise him when another entered. This time it was Houlun, accompanied by several grave-faced nokud. The old woman stood before him, gaunt, gray-haired, but magnificent, a matriarch of power and dignity. She spoke without preamble: “Jamuga Sechen, thou hast committed a terrible folly. I have come to ask thee to retract immediately.”
As she spoke, she looked at him with her fierce gray eyes, and they were full of angry scorn.
For some reason the sight of her infuriated Jamuga. His nostrils flared out in his pale drawn face. He looked her fully in the eye.
“I shall not retract,” he said.
She smiled darkly. “Dost thou realize thou hast abetted treason against my son?”
Jamuga’s heart turned cold. He looked into her eyes, and tried to keep his flesh from trembling.
“I have committed no treason, and thou dost know it, Houlun. I have merely used my best judgment. If I have been wrong, let Temujin decide that for himself. But I do believe I have done no wrong.”
She studied him in silence, then she spoke curiously:
“If thou couldst retract without making a fool of thyself, thou wouldst do so. But thy vanity is greater than thy discretion and thy sense, and thine envy of my son is even greater than thy vanity. In breaking one of his laws thou dost feel thou hast triumphed over him. In destroying his discipline and abetting treachery against him, thou dost have the silly joy of feeling momentarily stronger than he. But surely even thou dost realize that the personal gratification of one man is nothing compared with the unity and integrity of a whole people!”
Jamuga listened to her, and it seemed to him that his heart burst into devouring flames. He turned scarlet; his lips shook. His voice died in his throat. His struggles were visible, and Houlun observed them with dour satisfaction.
Finally he could speak: “I am khan until Temujin doth return. Go thou to thy yurt, Houlun, and do not leave it until I give thee permission.”
She smiled with dark amusement. “Thou dost imprison the mother of Temujin? O Jamuga, thou art a greater fool than even I suspected!”
She inclined her head towards the nokud, who followed her from the yurt. She left him with pride and dignity. Then, from a little distance, he heard her laugh, loudly, again and again.
Jamuga’s fury filled him like a poison. He walked up and down, distraught. He muttered to himself; sometimes he exclaimed aloud, flung himself on his bed and clutched his head in his hands. But the steel core of his obstinacy and belief in himself could not yield. Towards dawn he fell into an uneasy and nightmare-ridden dream.
He dreamed that he saw Temujin advancing towards him, smiling, his hand extended in friendship. He heard Temujin say: “This is mine anda. He hath done what I would have commanded to be done.”
Jamuga felt an almost intolerable relief. He took Temujin’s hand. He felt something hard in it. He recoiled, and saw that the hand held a dagger directed at his own heart. Temujin still smiled, but he held out the dagger inexorably, and now the smile was terrible.
Jamuga awoke with a cry. The dawnlight was pale and gray outside. Some one was fumbling again at the flap. Utterly distraught now, and nerveless, Jamuga gave vent to an involuntary shriek.
Subodai was entering, and with him was Agoti. Both men were very white, and breathing audibly. Jamuga saw that something awful had happened. He sat up in his bed, supported by a trembling arm. He glared at them from the extremity of his terror and exhaustion.
Subodai saluted. “Lord,” he said gravely, “Agoti hath just told me Chutagi hath strangled himself with the girdle, of his first wife, in his own yurt.”
Jamuga was speechless. He could not remove his distended eyes from Subodai’s pale calm face.
Agoti spoke respectfully, but with an undertone of small triumph:
“He told the woman that he must die for his treason against our lord.”
Subodai, seeing Jamuga’s sinking distraction, felt a qualm of pity.
“It is better so, Jamuga Sechen,” he said gently. “We shall give it out to the people that he died by thy will.”
“No!” screamed Jamuga. “I shall not have it so!”
The two men saluted in silence, and left him.
Jamuga flung himself face down on his bed. He groaned. He rolled from side to side. He was the prey of the most dreadful thoughts and suffering. He vomited. Pain ran through his body, and he thought: I am dying. He lusted after death with a piteous lust.
But after a while, he lay motionless, his eyes closed.
He thought: I have done the right thing. I did the only thing I could do.
Chapter 26
As though fate wished to show Jamuga that she had been merely playing with him heretofore, she now seemed to devote herself to tormenting him in earnest.
Every one avoided him, except Kurelen. No one troubled to salute him with respect or reverence. Had he been invisible, he could have been no more ignored. At first he was angered; then, finally, he was alarmed. His influence and discipline were gone. The people seemed restless and undecided. They muttered openly. They searched the horizons with fierce and rebellious eyes. They spoke loudly about the increasing cold, and the thickness of the ice on the river in the morning. Now the women, always more bold and voluble than the men, were heard to criticize Temujin without restraint. Temujin’s women complained to Bortei, saying: “Our lord is no longer mindful of us. It is said he is pursuing a Persian woman, and hath forgotten us, even thou, his first wife, and the mother of his son.”
Bortei looked at her lusty child, and set her teeth. If she were only certain, she thought to herself somberly, she would never have let Temujin go. Or, rather, he would have stayed. So she deceived herself. Her blood burned hotly with jealousy and hatred. Was the Persian woman more comely than herself? She ran her small fingers through her long black hair with its touches of bronze; she regarded herself piercingly in her polished silver mirror. She could not help smiling vainly as she saw that she was more beautiful than ever. Her gray eyes were lustrous; her little nose was sharp and clear, and her mouth was a dark rose. The old minstrels often sang of her at twilight, declaring that no woman could surpass Bortei the Beautiful. She believed it. How, then, had Temujin been seduced?
She laid down the mirror, and drawing her brows together, scowled thoughtfully. Then she began to smile, slowly and voluptuously. She preened her head; she lay back on her couch, and smiled even more, studying the rounded lines of her breast, her hips and thighs. She no longer thought of Temujin.
Jamuga became more conscious every hour that disorder was imminent in the city of the tents. He watched Subodai going about, silently, but with a grave alert face. When the handsome young paladin appeared, the people saluted, for they feared him. But when he had gone, they muttered more loudly than ever. Lines of sleeplessness appeared on his face. He dared not sleep. But when he encountered Jamuga, he did not reproach him either by glance or word. His manner, if anything, was more respectful than ever, and gentle. He kept in constant communication with the nokud. At first he was inclined to give severe orders and punishments, but he soon saw that this would only make the rebellion flare out fatally. Each day he told the nokud to give out that Temujin would appear soon, that he had already left the Karait city. Once he gave it out that Temujin had greatly pleased his foster father, and that he was returning with a new horde of warriors and much riches. The mentioning of the name of the mighty Toghrul Khan brought the people temporarily to their senses. They became uneasy. If they rebelled, or muttered more, they would probably have to answer to Toghrul Khan.
Nevertheless, the situation was acute. And no one knew this more than the subtle old Chief Shaman, Kokchu. Subodai could not be sure of this, but he suspected that much of the unrest came from the conjurer. So he visited him one evening.
Kokchu had no particular dislike for Subodai. In fact, he admired him, as he admired all beauty. And like many evil men, he appreciated virtue, though he mocked it. Subodai was both beautiful and virtuous, and had only one wife, whom he loved dearly. So Kokchu greeted him with pleasure, making a place for him at his side, and dismissing his women and his young shaman. He was not surprised at this visit; in fact, he had expected it. But he had expected Jamuga in Subodai’s place.
Subodai sat down. He smiled quietly but radiantly. He drank the good wine offered him, and partook of the evening meal. Kokchu was in a sly and amiable mood.
“I watched thy cavalry formations today, Subodai. Thou art truly a genius and a valiant man. What would Temujin do, these days, without thee?”
Subodai inclined his head with grave dignity at this flattery. “It is little enough,” he answered. “Kokchu, I have come to thee for advice. The people mutter. Thou art the Chief Shaman, and they revere thee. I ask thee now to order them to cease their muttering, under the threat of dire penalties. After all, it is treason.”
Kokchu threw up his eyes and his hands. “So I have told them! But, my son, thou must remember they have justification for their complaints. The winter is almost upon us. We should have been long gone to our winter pastures. The people are full of fear. Is it their fault that Temujin hath deserted them?”
Subodai regarded him steadfastly. “Thou knowest our lord hath not deserted us, Kokchu,” he said, coldly. “He was invited to the wedding of Toghrul Khan’s daughter. To have refused would have been a serious matter. He had to go.”
Kokchu smiled, lifted his shoulders. “They say it is the woman that hath drawn Temujin, and not the wedding. I have heard it said that he will steal her, and bring her here, thus invoking the rage and vengeance of Toghrul Khan.”
Subodai bit his lip. “It is a lie. I know not where this rumor doth arise. But it is a lie. He will return without her.”
“How dost thou know?” asked Kokchu, with an insinuating smile.
Subodai got to his feet. “I know,” he answered with a quiet and positive air. Kokchu regarded him keenly. But Subodai’s eyes did not shift. Then Kokchu sucked in his lips and frowned. Perhaps Subodai did know, in truth. In that event, matters would not be comfortable for those who whispered treason to the people. Kokchu’s cheek twisted. But he made himself smile gently.
“I will do what I can,” he said. He sighed. “But it will be a hard task. But I will do what I can.”
“I thank thee,” said Subodai, gravely, without a smile. “And when our lord doth return, I will speak to him of thy great loyalty.”
Kurelen was alarmed at what he heard and saw. He communicated this to Jamuga, maliciously. He said: “I say again, Jamuga, that thou wast born either too early or too late. In any event, thou hast committed a monstrous folly.”
But Jamuga’s own alarm and apprehension had made him excessively irritable, and he shrilled at Kurelen with such venom that the old man let him alone henceforth.
And it was at this time that fate struck him again.
He could not sleep. He could hear the redoubled guards pacing and moving about in the darkness of the night. He heard Subodai’s low voice challenging them, and consulting with them. The sentinels, too, were redoubled, sitting motionless on their horses in the face of the enormous midnight moon, wrapped in their blankets and their thick coats, their lances or sabers held ready in their hands. But Jamuga obstinately clung to his belief that he had been right. But when he saw Subodai’s uncomplaining and haggard face, and noticed that his gentle smile never failed him, he was filled with a personal remorse, not for what he had done, but for what he had made Subodai suffer.
His own sleeplessness became a torment. One night he got up, desperately. Subodai had just passed in the darkness; Jamuga had heard his voice. He decided he would go to the young paladin and talk to him, seeking comfort in that steadfast virtue and lack of panic.
He followed Subodai’s shadowy figure in the light of the waning moon. Subodai walked with his own graceful dignity, unhurried and calm. Jamuga was so weak with fear and sleeplessness that he could not overtake him. Subodai was making his rounds; he was approaching the section where Temujin’s deserted yurt stood, with its guards. When Subodai reached the kibitka, the guard spoke to him. Subodai bent his head and listened intently; he appeared surprised. Then he nodded. He sprang up on the platform and went within. The guard then walked away, leaving the yurt unguarded, apparently by order.
Jamuga sighed. He quickened his steps. He knew that Subodai would be alone and now he could talk with him freely. He climbed slowly and heavily upon the platform, and reached out to draw aside the flap. And then he stopped, his hand outstretched, his nerves thrilling. For he saw that there was dim lamplight within, and he heard the quick whispering of voices.
Had Temujin returned? His heart beat violently, and then sweat of profound relief and weak joy burst out all over him. He bent his head, listening intently.
But he did not hear Temujin. He heard Subodai.
“I have come,” the young paladin was saying. “What dost thou wish of me, Bortei?”
Jamuga heard Bortei’s laugh, rich and languid.
“I am afraid, Subodai. I have no one to whom to turn for comfort and protection. My lord’s mother, Houlun, is a prisoner in her yurt, and is forbidden visitors, by that fool, Jamuga. I am only a woman, and a mother, and frail of soul and heart. Forgive me that I have troubled thee.”
There was a little silence. Outside, Jamuga’s senses reeled; he almost fell off the platform.
Then Subodai spoke slowly and gravely: “Thou hast not troubled me, Bortei. Whatever I can do for the wife of my lord is thine to command.”
Again, Bortei laughed her seductive laugh; then she sighed audibly.
“I know thy loyalty, Subodai. Sit beside me. Hold my hand. Thou art a brother to our lord, and I take comfort in thy touch and the sight of thee.”
Jamuga knelt down on the platform. He lifted the flap a mere slip, in a wet hand. He peered within. He saw that Bortei was sitting on her couch, dressed in a white wool robe, elaborately embroidered. Necklaces of turquoise and gold were hung about her throat, and his wrists jingled with bracelets. Her black hair hung heavily over her shoulders, and the dim lamplight threw rosy shadows on her face, making her dark eyes inscrutable, swimming with radiance, and her lips like red flowers warm in the sun.
&nb
sp; Subodai stood before her, tall and slender and silent. His blue eyes caught the light, and they were the color of the sky, vivid and shining. He made no effort to sit beside her. He was exceedingly pale.
“I must not linger,” he said calmly. “I must complete my rounds, over and over. But speak quickly, Bortei: what can I do for thee?”
Her face changed. She looked at him in silence. Her breast rose, then began to heave with quickened breath. Her eyes moved from his lips, and thenceforth down his body in its long embroidered coat and woolen trousers, tied tightly about his ankles against the cold. Suddenly her cheeks flushed; her wet lips parted; her eyes swam in hot languor. She held his eyes with hers; she rose. She smiled seductively. She laid her hands on his shoulders, and threw back her head. Her white throat glimmered in the lamplight. And he looked down at her face, with its humid, half-opened smiling mouth, and did not move. But he did not seem amazed, nor even taken aback.
She began to whisper, thrillingly, and brought her face closer to his so that her hot breath touched his lips.
“Subodai, my lord hath deserted me. Thou knowest this. Soon the people will rise up and elect thee khan. Subodai, I have always loved thee. Thou wilt take me as thy wife. But I cannot wait. Take me tonight, Subodai! Take me tonight!”
Still, he did not move. His face was as composed and expressionless as that of a stone image’s. She studied him; her breast rose swellingly. The throat of her garment was open, and now it parted, and her bosom was revealed shamelessly. She laughed, low and triumphantly. Her hands slipped from his shoulders, found their way under his coat; she clasped him about the waist. Then she leaned against him, putting her head on his breast. Her body pressed against his; her thigh clung to his. Her eyes half-closed in the languor of lust, and she smiled.
They stood like this for a long moment, like one body. In the darkness outside, Jamuga began to shudder violently. He felt mortally sick. His sight failed him, and he thought he was dying. When he opened his eyes, he believed that he had fainted. But when he looked within the yurt again, he saw that only a little time had passed. The man and the woman still stood together, immobile.