AFTER THE MISFORTUNE OF BEING abandoned by all of their other kin, Ö’elün and her children lived for two years in their small yurt in the northern foothills of Mount Burqan. Temüjin was now sixteen. Physically, he was considerably stronger than his father Yisügei had ever been, even in his most formidable years, with a far more robust build. Insofar as there was nothing pressing to attend to, he remained taciturn to the point of only rarely speaking, but the entire family had taken shape around him and in this way lived harmoniously. In any business matter or family affair, Temüjin had absolute authority and gave all orders. If there was a matter not to be decided solely by himself, he would consult his fourteen-year-old brother, Qasar, as Temüjin had decided that Qasar was his second in command within the family.
Qasar still had the dependable nature he had borne since his earliest years. Thoroughly cautious about everything, he continued to work as Temüjin’s trusted advisor. In those matters in which Temüjin sought his view and he himself did not have a fixed opinion, he would not give Temüjin an immediate response, but went and consulted with his half-brother, Belgütei, who was roughly the same age, and the two of them hammered out a position that they brought to their older brother. Belgütei had an extraordinary physique surpassing even that of Temüjin, though he possessed a number of rougher aspects as well. He was not particularly scrupulous about little matters and somehow had developed a certain gentleness about him. Therefore, more than Temüjin himself, he was beloved by twelve-year-old Qachi’un, ten-year-old Temüge, and their youngest sibling, eight-year-old sister Temülün. Ö’elün and her children may have been a poor and isolated family, but the seven of them—with Temüjin at the core—managed to live in peace.
Mother Ö’elün’s position within the family was special. Temüjin never consulted her on anything but used his own judgment for all decisions. On occasion, she might put in a word or offer her own opinion. In such instances, Temüjin listened attentively to what his mother had to say, but he never allowed his own view of things to be influenced by it. Opinions were for gleaning information only. To be sure, Temüjin never slighted or ignored his mother. She was his greatest concern. He always saw to it that she received the best pieces of meat, and when unusual items such as bedding or clothing came into his possession, he made sure to give them first to her. When it came to the business of running the household, though, he allowed her no voice at all. Ö’elün’s only options then were to be an advisor or a critic. Thus, no matter what she might have wished to do, without the approval of Temüjin, she could not so much as move some bedding around.
This method of operations adopted by Temüjin was highly prudent. If Mother Ö’elün had meddled in every matter and tried to alter things even a little, the family would never have functioned well. Even though Belgütei was a half-brother and Ö’elün loved him just as much as she did her other children, a distinctive relationship between the two of them had not been snuffed out. As before, Belgütei was a stepchild for Ö’elün, and Ö’elün was a stepmother for Belgütei. So Ö’elün always failed to demonstrate a fair proportion of love for Belgütei, and to that extent he always bore his own suspicions regarding her.
The complexity of relations among the brothers did not end there, though. Temüjin himself was in precisely the same position as Belgütei. In his heart of hearts, he had not fully extinguished the idea that he might not be Yisügei’s son. He would have to bear the doubt once hurled at him by Begter, whom he had killed, all the way to the grave. Like his four siblings, Qasar, Qachi’un, Temüge, and Temülün, he had certainly been delivered of the womb of Ö’elün, but his father was a different matter. And although they were all born of the same mother, perhaps there were different allotments of love. This was an issue of subtle complexity that defied Temüjin’s imagination, but it nonetheless tortured him to no end. If he took control in all matters away from his mother, he believed, everything would move along smoothly.
Ö’elün was not the least bit disconcerted by this mode of behavior on Temüjin’s part. She was thoroughly cherished and treated with great affection by her children, and indeed, as a mother, was even pleased that all such matters would be handled under Temüjin’s leadership. The full trust she enjoyed in her six children shone in her eyes.
Just as Temüjin would on occasion take some time to himself and sit in a corner of the yurt, deeply engrossed in his own thoughts, Ö’elün too would now and again take time to indulge in her own private thoughts, which would never be divulged to anyone. These were never long periods, in fact quite short, but once in a while she would abruptly fall into such a secret abyss. Who did Temüjin really resemble? Was it Yisügei or Chiledü, a male member of the Merkid lineage?
Ö’elün herself did not know which of these two men had sired Temüjin. She assumed that when he grew up, she would be able to judge based on whom he resembled more, but Temüjin did not resemble either one—neither when he was very young nor at any time until the present. If she pressed her search for clues, at times, such as when he slightly stooped his large frame to enter the tent, his physical carriage seemed to resemble that of Yisügei. Although it happened only once, one evening when a fierce windstorm was blowing, while rain was pelting the outside of the tent, she heard Temüjin’s voice assiduously directing his younger brothers to reinforce weak spots in the yurt lest the wind blow it away altogether. Ö’elün sensed Yisügei’s presence on this occasion too. Temüjin’s voice shouting out orders reached Ö’elün’s ears intermittently as she stared out from the entrance into the darkness with its violent wind and rain.
By the same token, though, there was something about Temüjin’s nature that did not resemble Yisügei. In his strength as a warrior fearless of death itself, Yisügei had still possessed a certain gentleness, a human virtuousness, a weakness whereby he would abruptly withdraw his own point of view in favor of another’s. This weakness had earned him the admiration of many of his relations and enabled him to retain his high position without any significant trouble among the more powerful households. One could not point to a quality of this sort in Temüjin’s makeup. He had a coolness—perhaps better dubbed a heartlessness—absent in Yisügei, and he possessed a strength of will such that, as soon as he articulated his opinion on something, under no circumstances would he ever relinquish ground to anyone.
Temüjin, though, no more resembled the Merkids. Merkid men were small in stature with a nimbleness in appearance as well as in body, but Temüjin was much larger on the whole. What his face and torso lacked in similarity to the Merkids, so too did his nature.
Only once, though, did a telling incident transpire. When Temüjin was involved in the murder of his younger half-brother Begter, he suffered relentless rebukes from his mother. On this occasion, he stood silently, offering not a word in his own defense, but at the time Ö’elün had unconsciously placed before herself none other than the young Merkid named Chiledü. He had come one night like a sudden squall, snatched her from the Olqunu’ud people, raped her without a word emanating from her mouth, and then over the next few days assaulted and continued to violate her. And now, there he was. His actions were all linked by a craving to make whatever he wanted his own with no preconceived method in particular.
Although Ö’elün had become enraged when she learned that Temüjin had killed Begter, the harsh words that continued to pour from her mouth, as if she were in a trance, were due to the fact that in her mind, this savage Merkid youth was standing there. Directly before her was not Temüjin but Chiledü.
When her excitement abated and she regained her composure, Ö’elün pondered one scary thought. Perhaps it was fine if Merkid blood ran in Temüjin’s veins, but she had shunted to the side her own position as Temüjin’s mother. That event had without a doubt left a scar in Ö’elün’s own heart.
In the summer of the year Temüjin turned sixteen, an incident occurred that shook the lives of these descendants of the Borjigin khans at the roots. Targhutai, leader of the Tayichi’uds, commanding a force of 300 men, launched a surprise attack on Temüjin’s yurt.
At some point, Temüjin foresaw this coming. About a month before it happened, a Borjigin man living an utterly wretched existence at the Tayichi’ud camp appeared unexpectedly at Temüjin’s tent. Although he had been hunting nearby, it seemed clear that his visit was purposely occasioned both by curiosity about how Ö’elün and her children were faring and by feelings of homesickness for old faces. While properly speaking, he was an accomplice of the hated enemy who had abandoned them, because he claimed that he was visiting specifically out of worry on their behalf, any animosity Ö’elün and her family might have harbored toward the man dissipated. He placed a third of his game before them and quickly departed, but during this short visit he did inform them that the Tayichi’ud leader Targhutai bore evil intentions toward Temüjin. When a group of his fellow family members gathered in the first month of the year, Targhutai reportedly had said, while drinking wine:
“The chicken’s feathers are spreading. The lamb too is growing up. Before it’s too late, we shall put an end to the life of Yisügei’s little brat. If his wings are allowed to spread as if flying in the sky and his step allowed to grow sturdy as if running across the desert, then he may come to pose a serious problem.”
Because of this, Temüjin knew that an attack was impending. He set to making preparations for it, constructing a fortified hut out of tree branches in a nearby forest and in the evening assembling their sheep and horses around the yurt.
It was late one night in early summer when the moon was shining brightly. Hearing an unusual cry from the animals, Ö’elün and her children woke all at once. When they left the tent, they saw arrows that had fallen among the livestock. Temüjin led his family across the field and then ran toward the forest that was home to the fortified hut. The Tayichi’uds unleashed a volley of arrows from horseback, and from far down a broad slope he could see horsemen advancing toward him.
Temüjin had not foreseen an attack by such a large detachment. He had thought that this was a matter for a small group and that at most fifty or sixty men might come surging in with swords drawn. He had completely miscalculated and was unsure what to do. He found refuge for his mother and three siblings too young to fight—Qachi’un, Temüge, and Temülün—in the fissures of the precipices in the woods. Then, with Qasar and Belgütei, he holed up in the fortified hut and exchange arrow fire with the attackers.
Victory in this fight, though, was determined from the start. With only a few arrows remaining, Temüjin ordered his two younger brothers to take their mother and younger siblings and escape deep into the forest to save their lives.
“They’ve launched such a large assault because they want all this grassland for themselves,” he said. “If you manage to escape, head straight north of Mount Burqan and don’t come near here again.”
To save his brothers, sister, and mother, Temüjin alone was left to shoot his final arrow from the hut in the woods. He then mounted his horse and rode off to the foothills of Tergüne Heights, hidden deep in the woods.
Temüjin spent three days in the forest. Were the Tayichi’uds still looking for this fugitive? On a number of occasions he heard the whinnying of horses. On the fourth day, Temüjin attempted to lead his horse out of the forest, but for some reason his saddle attached to the horse’s girth separated from it and fell to the ground. Highly inauspicious, he thought, and returned to spend another three days in the forest. He then tried once again to leave, but this time a white stone roughly the size of a yurt blocked his way out, and he abandoned the idea and lay concealed there for yet another three days. With no food, on the verge of starvation, Temüjin decided for the third time to make his way out of the forest. The immense white boulder still obstructed his path. He attempted to circumvent it, but there was no solid footing to be found.
Again, Temüjin felt this an unpromising omen, but he realized that if he remained there, he would likely starve to death, so he boldly crossed over the rocky precipice and left the forest. No sooner had he emerged from the trees than Temüjin was apprehended by Tayichi’ud men who spotted him. They tied him up and brought him to a new Tayichi’ud colony not far away on the banks of the Onon River.
Laden with a large piece of timber across his shoulders and with both hands shackled to it, Temüjin was walked into a village of several hundred scattered tents. Many were the faces of Borjigin men and women there whom Temüjin recognized. With expressions of mixed feelings on their faces, they cast their eyes on his half-naked figure with rippling musculature like a stone, the now splendidly grown son of their former khan, Yisügei. No one addressed him. As Temüjin had learned from the two men he chanced to have met earlier, his fellow Borjigins had fallen on bad times, and he now saw that this was not simply a rumor. All of them, men and women alike, stood silently before their squalid tents.
Temüjin sensed that the leader of the Tayichi’uds lacked the will to kill him. Had he so intended, Temüjin thought, then he would surely not have led him before a group of his own people. Whatever he might have been planning, that would have done more harm than good. Temüjin reasoned that he would probably have to endure torture for a number of days, then be released from his shackles, enticed into the Tayichi’ud camp, and compelled to swear allegiance to it.
That night Temüjin was forced to stand in an open area at the edge of the settlement. Only one person stood guard over him, while the rest of the population assembled in an area in front of the chieftain’s tent and held a banquet. With one section of the piece of wood strapped to his shoulders, Temüjin struck this guard, and as soon as he saw that the man had collapsed on the ground unconscious, he quickly escaped. The moon was bright that night. Temüjin could see the strange shadow he cast on the ground with the large piece of timber still attached to his shoulders, and instinctively he began running along the bank of the Onon River. When he reached the point of exhaustion, he was able to conceal his body and the burden he carried in the verdant overgrowth by the river.
It wasn’t long before Temüjin knew that the Tayichi’uds had learned of his escape and were shouting among themselves to find him. Voices could be heard from the riverbank and from the extensive grassland that abutted it. On a number of occasions, human voices and footsteps passed close to where he was hiding. Fearing that he would eventually be found, Temüjin slipped deeper into the slimy overgrowth.
Suddenly a voice overhead called out:
“There is fire in your eye and light in your face. With that weight on your shoulders, the Tayichi’ud leader envies and fears you. Stay quiet where you are, and we won’t tell anyone.”
Temüjin had been holding his breath with his half-naked body in the water. He had a faint memory of this hoarse voice. It was surely that of Sorqan Shira. When his father, Yisügei, was alive, this man had frequently come to visit their family, but he was solemn and never laughed, and for that reason none of the children ever took a liking to him.
After he had hidden there for a long time, Temüjin’s fear of being discovered by the search party dissipated, and with the wooden burden on his shoulders, he crawled up from the water’s edge. His arms, tied up and extended horizontally for such a long period of time, had utterly lost all feeling. Temüjin realized that in his present shape he was unable to escape anywhere. He was unable to swim in the Onon River, and he could not cover much ground by walking through the night. Dawn was now fast approaching.
Temüjin reasoned that the best plan might be to slip into the tent of Sorqan Shira, who had earlier passed him by. Although this course of action entailed dangers, once he decided on it, Temüjin again concentrated on being inconspicuous and headed back toward the Tayichi’ud settlement.
Sorqan Shira’s household, when he was one of Yisügei’s subordinates, made a living by producing kumis, fermented mare’s milk. Temüjin remembered how Sorqan Shira would work late into the night pouring fresh horse’s milk into a large vat and then churning it. Imagining that he still pursued the same livelihood, Temüjin walked around the village late that night listening for the sound of milk being churned. He was finally able to find the right tent.
Stripped to the waist, Sorqan Shira was aided in his work by his two sons, Chimbai, who was Temüjin’s age, and Chila’un, who was two years his junior. He was stirring the liquid in the large vat with a stick. When Temüjin came inside their yurt, Sorqan Shira was gravely surprised.
“Why in the world did you come back here?” he asked. “I told you to hurry back to where your mother and younger brothers were.” His expression was one of genuine consternation. Then, his elder son Chimbai, who was short and had protruding eyes and a large head, said in a surprisingly mature tone of voice:
“What’s done is done—he’s here. There’s no looking back now. We have to help him.” He said it as if admonishing his father. Then his younger brother, Chila’un, with a squint in his eyes, opened them wide, though without a clear focus, and approached Temüjin, speaking neither specifically to his father nor to his elder brother: “We once received from Temüjin the nail of a small deer’s hoof.” Although but two years younger than Temüjin, he barely came up to his shoulder and was unmistakably the shorter of the two brothers.
Initially Temüjin had no idea why Chila’un had walked over in his direction, but he soon realized that one of his shackled arms was free. Until Chila’un had completely unbound Temüjin, Sorqan Shira had a dour expression on his face and stood up straight beside the large vat.
Chimbai removed the fetters from Temüjin’s body and threw them in the fire. A girl of about ten years in age named Qada’an appeared out of nowhere. She looked like her older brothers and was very short.
“My clever daughter,” said Sorqan Shira, ordering the girl with the face of a young child, “never tell any of this to another living person. I am putting the care of the eldest son of Yisügei in your hands.” His countenance effectively said that there was no other choice, things having reached this pass. Qada’an quickly brought some food and gave it to Temüjin, and without saying a word she urged him to leave. When he followed her out of the tent, Qada’an led him around behind it to a cart piled high with wool and pointed to it. Her father had called her clever, and indeed she seemed to be very resourceful.
Temüjin quickly crawled into the wool. When he finished eating the food she had given him with only his face and hands exposed to the night air, he buried himself entirely, unable to see anything outside. With his entire body now wrapped in wool, Temüjin was sweltering, but an overwhelming exhaustion soon plunged him into a deep sleep.
The following day Temüjin hid in this place all day. Only at nightfall, at Chimbai’s signal, did he crawl out. A mare with black mane and light brown coat was waiting for him. It bore no saddle, but large leather bags hanging on either side of the horse’s torso were filled with roasted lamb.
“This horse has borne no offspring, so there’s no need to return it,” said Chimbai, as he passed Temüjin a bow and two arrows. When Temüjin was about to depart, Sorqan Shira came out and said to him:
“You’ve exposed us all to grave danger. Listen, my little immortal friend, you must never say anything about us—ever! Now, go quickly.”
Highly attentive until he had left the settlement, Temüjin made his horse walk slowly, and as soon as he was beyond the village he rode off at a dash. In retrospect, he realized he had narrowly escaped by the skin of his teeth. Rather than thinking about his own close brush with death, Temüjin was absorbed in the thought, as he rode off, that gathering all the Borjigin people under his leadership as in the era of his father would not be that difficult a task.
For the next few days, Temüjin walked around the northern foothills of Mount Burqan in search of his mother and siblings. He had learned in the Tayichi’ud settlement that they had not been apprehended, so they were surely hiding out somewhere in this area.
One day as Temüjin was walking upstream along the bank of the Onon River, he passed its point of confluence with the Kimurgha Stream and climbed Qorchuqui Hill on Beder Promontory. At the foot of the southern slope of this hill, he spied a small tent. When he approached and looked inside, he found Ö’elün, Temüge, and Temülün. Qasar, Belgütei, and Qachi’un had gone into the mountains that morning to gather food. Only eight horses—all the possessions this family had—were hitched close to the tent.
The next day Temüjin folded up the tent and moved them three days’ journey away to the banks of a lake full of azure water located at the foot of Mount Qara Jirüken. Here was a suitable spot in a corner of the plateau where the impoverished family of Mother Ö’elün could live near the flow of the Sengkür Stream. There were many rabbits and field mice, and the lake and river were filled with fish.
Temüjin had to rebuild their lives at this new dwelling. With Qasar and Belgütei, he searched for the furrows of marmots to trap them almost every day. They ate the flesh and used the pelts to make garments. If they accumulated a good number of them, they could also exchange them for sheep.
One day about three months later, Temüjin and his brothers set off to trap marmots as always, but that evening when they returned home with their heavily laden, short-tailed chestnut horse, they learned that every one of their horses had been stolen. Ö’elün and the younger children had been out looking for food in the hills and were completely unaware of the theft.
“I’m going after them,” said Belgütei. With only the chestnut horse left, only one person could go in pursuit.
“You can’t do it,” said Qasar. “I’ll go.” In physical strength Qasar was no match for Belgütei, but he was far more accomplished a horseman than his brother.
“You can’t do it. I’ll go.” This time it was Temüjin who spoke, using precisely the same words as Qasar had. He loaded provisions on the horse, armed himself with bow and arrows, mounted, and was quickly gone.
Temüjin drove his horse straight through the night, and the following day he rode around in search of anything that resembled a settlement. Come what might, he had to retrieve those eight horses. They were irreplaceable, the sum total of his family’s property. After three full days roaming about the plateau, on the morning of the fourth day Temüjin chanced to meet a young boy milking horses on pastureland. He asked the lad if he had seen eight dappled-gray horses.
“Before the sun rose this morning,” he replied, “I saw eight grays galloping along this pathway. If they’re stolen, let’s give chase and get them back.”
He led his black horse out and encouraged Temüjin to change horses, while he himself mounted a fast, light-yellow horse. The boy handled everything with an attitude of confidence befitting an adult, and saying nothing to his family, joined Temüjin in the search.
Until that point in time, Temüjin had never met such an agile youngster. Despite the fact that he made his preparations in no time at all, he had bow and arrows, tinder, and two leather bags with food loaded on his horse. Because there were no covers over the bags, he picked wild grasses en route and cleverly fashioned substitute lids. The dexterity with which he did all this left Temüjin with a good feeling. He was the son of Naqu Bayan, chieftain of a small village, and his name was Bo’orchu.
Temüjin and Bo’orchu rode for another three days, and on the evening of the fourth day entered a settlement of a branch of the Tayichi’uds. They found the eight horses they had been looking for tied up on the pastureland. It was preferable to round up the horses at night and then lead them back home.
Just at daybreak, they caught sight of a dozen or more mounted men coming after them.
“My friend,” said Bo’orchu, “take the horses and ride off quickly. I will stay and shoot my arrows at them.”
“How can you go to your death on my behalf?” said Temüjin. “I will fight them.” As soon as he had spoken, Temüjin turned and fired off an arrow. It pierced the chest of a man at the front of the group who was riding a white steed and trying to hurl a lasso at them. Seeing that the other pursuers had ridden up to their fallen comrade on the ground, Temüjin and Bo’orchu galloped off posthaste, and the other men made no further effort to catch them.
Temüjin made his way to the tent of Naqu Bayan, stayed one night, thanked Bo’orchu for his help, and returned home. Although thrilled at having brought the eight horses back, Temüjin was even happier about the fact that he now knew that there were men in this world who would volunteer to join him in action with no mercenary interest whatsoever—and they were young men his own age. He had never even dreamed such men might exist until then.
After returning to his tent, Temüjin tried on several occasions to say the name of the youngster. Bo’orchu, Bo’orchu—he was, of course, neither a Borjigin nor a Tayichi’ud, but a Mongol. Temüjin could not help but think that he was like this young man Bo’orchu whose veins overflowed with the blood of the blue wolf that came from the West. Bo’orchu in fact did somehow give the impression, in the fearless limbs of his body, that he resembled a wolf. Physically he was certainly neither robust nor big, actually rather slender in appearance, but his muscles were gracefully compact, and he seemed to be always waiting to join in action at the necessary moment with a sense that nothing was in vain.
That year, ten head of sheep came from Bo’orchu’s father, Naqu Bayan, on behalf of his only son. Naqu Bayan was extremely pleased that his son had made such a friend as Temüjin.
Temüjin and his brothers spent the autumn making a pasture next to their new dwelling.
The following year Temüjin turned seventeen. His mother, Ö’elün, advised him to go to the Unggirad village to see Börte, the young woman to whom he was betrothed. Ö’elün had offered this counsel several times already, but each time he had ignored it. All he could think of was that this would add another mouth to feed in their already isolated and helpless, poverty-stricken home.
On this occasion, though, now that he was seventeen, Temüjin thought of the matter slightly differently. He was beginning to think that adding one more person might actually be necessary. If increasing the numbers of those dwelling within his own tent would strengthen it, then surely the minds of the Borjigins, who were far from enjoying a happy situation at present, would be moved. And certainly they would recollect past times when they had made Yisügei their khan and gathered at his camp, and they would look forward to such an era returning. Since they had allowed him to gain such knowledge, Temüjin’s having been attacked by the Tayichi’uds and taken captive into their settlement ironically were positive experiences. Hadn’t Sorqan Shira and his three short children all demonstrated their goodwill? Undoubtedly, the sentiment expressed by Sorqan Shira’s family was an emotion shared by all Borjigins.
Now Temüjin thought he would indeed go, just as his mother was suggesting, to see Börte in her tent. And he would be happy to receive with Börte the Unggirad men and women—even if they were disabled and old or maidservants—who were surely to accompany her to her new home.
When he had made up his mind, Temüjin set off on the journey to the Unggirad village with his half-brother, Belgütei. They traveled downstream along the Kherlen River for several days. Although this was scenery Temüjin had seen once before, what unfolded before Belgütei was an altogether new plateau, forests, valleys, and grasslands. Many times when they camped in the evening, far from his usual taciturnity, Belgütei talked on and on in great wonderment. What he spoke of was always the extraordinary vastness of the world before them, the fact that no one was dwelling there, and why, he wished to know, so many nomads had been unable to build numerous settlements throughout this wide, uninhabited space.
Temüjin remained silent, listening to this unforeseen volubility of his half-brother as if it were some sort of pleasant music. It was all just as Belgütei said. Temüjin also felt the immensity of the Mongolian plain over which he had been galloping with his horse for some days. The horses, the sheep, the fertile pasturelands—all were so abundant and beyond one man’s capacity to take in hand. Grasslands on which it was easy to pitch one’s tent and banks of lakes and rivers that seemed perfectly fine as sites on which to live were also abundant. Why hadn’t people pitched their tents here? For his part Temüjin could think of only one possible reason: in the ongoing strife among peoples, each settlement had to have a few days’ distance between itself and all the others. The range over which one group moved in its nomadic migrations seemed to have been naturally determined as if by a deity in the ancient past. No single lineage was about to move beyond its prescribed range, and if one did so and invaded a neutral zone, this would invite attack by another group who accordingly felt threatened.
Had the various lineages and ethnic groups scattered across the Mongolian plateau dispensed with their mutual animosities and freely opened up new grazing lands, the lives of nomads now living there would have been vastly different. No matter where travelers ventured on this immense plateau, they would always see tents and large groups of sheep and horses. Yurts would be dotting the entire Mongolian plateau, and herds of sheep and horses moving slowly over every slope and valley like clouds drifting across the sky. It was such a fanciful vision he almost wanted to sigh out loud. Could that ever come to be? It wasn’t necessarily impossible, was it? If they were to defeat the Tayichi’uds and even finish off the Tatars, then such a proposition was by no means out of the question.
When they entered the Unggirad settlement, Dei Sechen joyously came to greet them. He had heard, but only in the form of a rumor, that Temüjin had been injured in an attack by the Tayichi’uds and presumed him to be no longer of this world. And now the young man, completely changed from four years before, suddenly appeared in front of him all grown up and powerful of build—it seemed frankly unbelievable to him.
That evening they celebrated a great banquet in Dei Sechen’s tent.
“The son of the past Mongol khan, having overcome astonishing adversity, has now grown into a mighty young man. And, as he once promised, he has come to take my daughter. I could never break a promise. I gave Börte to this virtually invulnerable young man. Thus, my daughter and those who accompany her must go to the Borjigin yurts in the west, where they will pitch several tents, for Börte will feel lonely in only one.”
Dei Sechen made this speech with his own distinctive, rhythmic intonation to the people of his yurt, but so that Temüjin would hear. The eating and drinking went on late into the night. Temüjin had still not seen Börte since arriving, as she had not appeared to take a seat at the banquet.
When the banquet came to a close, Temüjin was led to another tent different from that of Dei Sechen. When he entered, he saw by the light of a lantern Börte dressed in resplendent garb, sitting punctiliously in a Jurchen-style chair from the state of Jin. Just as the four years that had passed had changed Temüjin, so too had they utterly changed this young woman. Börte had a large-framed torso not seen among the Borjigin women. Her breasts and waist were quite fleshy, and it seemed to Temüjin as though her entire body was glowing. Indeed, there was something of a brownish brilliance to her hair and a lustrous sheen to the white skin of her face and the nape of her neck. He could not say if this was due solely to the flickering light of the lantern burning mutton tallow.
Until this point in time, women for Temüjin were merely weak creatures, inferior in every capacity, never able to measure up and be ranked together with men. With Börte standing before him, though, he was gripped by the strange feeling that his view of them was going to be completely overturned. He realized that he was seeing the true face of a woman now for the first time. Still standing by the entrance, Temüjin continued gazing directly at Börte. His mind was sensing an eerie confusion the likes of which he had never experienced before. The woman before him was beautiful and not in the least a weak creature, and her supple body was in no way inferior to a man’s.
Eventually, Börte stood up from her chair. The light-blue necklace hanging over her chest made a faint sound as she moved. She stood still, not speaking a word, as she revealed her entire physical form before the man who had become her husband. With swelling, ample breasts, her figure possessed authority and pride.
Temüjin tried to approach her, but his feet would not move in the desired direction. This was his first experience with something placed before him making him hesitate. He had never feared anything and had never vacillated when drawing near anything. What made his feet stop dead in their tracks? What was this beautiful, glowing creature before him now?
Börte moved slightly at this moment, a mere step or two closer to Temüjin. At the same time, a few short words emerged from her mouth, but Temüjin’s ears could not hear them. As much as she approached, he retreated. The space between them remained unchanged from the time he had entered the tent. Then Temüjin noticed that Börte was speaking again. This time he clearly heard his named called:
“Temüjin, my father said that you were a young man who resembled a mighty wolf, and you are indeed like a young mighty wolf.”
Temüjin remained silent. The words he should have spoken did not come to his lips. Then, after a while, he hurled out unruly language, as if he were confronting a formidable enemy face to face:
“I am a Mongol. As your father said, the blood of the wolf flows in my veins. Every single Mongol has the blood of the wolf.”
“I am an Unggirad woman,” replied Börte. “No wolf’s blood flows in my body. But I can give birth to many cubs who will share the blood of the wolf. My father has instructed me to bear numerous offspring of the wolf. To suppress the Tayichi’uds, to suppress the Tatars, and, yes, even to suppress every last Unggirad as well.”
Temüjin took in these words as if they were a divine oracle. He could not imagine that the words uttered by this young woman were those of a single individual.
Temüjin felt like a kind of boldness, as the blood in his body grew warmer to the point of overflowing. He then took a tentative step toward this beautiful young woman given to him now by the Unggirad chieftain Dei Sechen, a man who had abrogated his own father-daughter bond of love.
“Börte!” Temüjin unconsciously called out her name, as he was seized with something like a profound, heartfelt love.
“Temüjin!” Although she too called his name, as if in response, her tone struck Temüjin as infinitely gentler. He then took another step, but now Börte backed away. Temüjin did not now hesitate, but lunged straight in her retreating direction and took her in his arms.
Temüjin spent three days in the Unggirad village. During that time, the feasting continued day and night. Because his own life had suddenly changed, Belgütei took on a sullen mood and ceased speaking altogether. He had nothing to say. The grandeur of the banquet, of course, from the clothing of the villagers down to the personal effects in the tents, stunned Belgütei enormously.
On the fourth day, Temüjin and Belgütei, together with Börte and thirty of her attendants, set off from the Unggirad village. Börte’s father, Dei Sechen, and her mother, Chotan, joined the group so that they could see her off midway. Unlike the trip there, the return was a bustling procession.
Among all the peoples scattered over the Mongolian plateau, the Unggirads had been most blessed by the culture of the Jurchen (Jin) state. They thus had splendid travel attire. When they passed other peoples’ settlements nearby, large groups of onlookers always came together to gaze at them.
Although it involved a bit of a detour, Dei Sechen encouraged Temüjin to go by way of these other villages. His idea was that it would be good to inform them, even if only a little, of the existence of Temüjin’s isolated yurt, and Temüjin decided to follow his father-in-law’s advice.
When Dei Sechen arrived at the shores of the Kherlen River, he turned back and left the party. Chotan had planned to return with her husband, but she couldn’t bear to leave her daughter. She therefore traveled with the group as far as Temüjin’s yurt on the shores of the azure lake by Mount Qara Jirüken. After arriving, Chotan spent about ten days with them before returning to the Unggirad settlement.
The single tent inhabited by Temüjin and his family until then would no longer be sufficient. Temüjin moved out of the tent in which his mother and siblings were living and built a new one for himself and Börte. An additional five tents were constructed for the men and women who accompanied Börte as her entourage. Although it might have been called a settlement, it was still no more than an aggregation of a small number of people. At night the light of the fires from these tents shone and illuminated the darkness in which they had been engulfed. At dawn men and women rose and emerged from their respective yurts to go to work.
When Temüjin had become comfortable with his new life, he planned with Qasar and Belgütei to meet at their own tent with Bo’orchu, who had helped him regain their eight gray horses. Temüjin thought that Bo’orchu would surely come in response to a personal invitation. There was, of course, no reason for either Qasar or Belgütei to object, and Belgütei went on the mission to Bo’orchu.
On the morning of the fifth day after Belgütei had left, Temüjin caught sight all the way from beyond the grasslands of a young man riding next to Belgütei on a chestnut horse he remembered, with a blue woolen cloak over it. Showing him proper courtesy, Temüjin ushered this nimble young man about the same age as himself into their small settlement. Bo’orchu had not consulted with his father about coming to join Temüjin, but a messenger from Naqu Bayan soon arrived as if he had been trailing him. Apparently there were special routes known to men like this messenger. If the two young men consulted and over the long term decided to cooperate, then it appeared as though Bo’orchu might do as he wished. These were the words Naqu Bayan conveyed to them. Thereafter, several dozen head of sheep were delivered to Temüjin’s settlement from Naqu Bayan’s stock.
After consulting with Qasar, Belgütei, and Bo’orchu, Temüjin moved their dwelling site to the broad, sloping side of Mount Burqan. This area included extensive grasslands and was convenient for pasturing animals. In addition, it would be easier to protect their tents from the pounding wind and rain that came virtually every year. With his own new tent, Temüjin lined up the tents of Bo’orchu and Ö’elün at the center of their settlement, and surrounded them with the others’ tents.
Temüjin then took it into his mind to welcome to his yurt Chimbai and Chila’un, the two sons of Sorqan Shira who were in the Tayichi’ud village. He would greet these two benefactors who had released him from his shackles and given him shelter in their home, for they had served him as trustworthy followers. Communicating with them was highly dangerous because they lived in the midst of a Tayichi’ud settlement. It was extremely difficult to get word to them. Qasar served as messenger, and he succeeded admirably in his task. He returned with one large-headed short youth and one squinting youngster, each riding a strong horse.
Temüjin greeted the two young men when they dismounted.
“You know your own minds well!” he said. “Surely, your father, Sorqan Shira, was opposed to your coming.”
“Father several times tilted his head to the side dubiously,” said Chimbai, “as he stirred the fermented mares’ milk in a large vat. But I spoke up: ‘A messenger has arrived. We have no alternative but to respond.’ Then Qasar and I left together.”
Chimbai had offered neither rhyme nor reason for his action. He seemed to be the sort of youngster who, having won another man’s confidence and trust, was prepared to give his life in response. Thus, having once had his life saved by this young man, Temüjin now could welcome him into his own camp.
“Chila’un,” said Temüjin, directing his voice to Chimbai’s younger brother. Chila’un turned his unfocused eyes toward Temüjin.
“Once in the past,” he replied, “I received from you the nail of a small deer’s hoof.” Because of this nail, Chila’un had removed Temüjin’s shackles, and now he had abandoned his home for Temüjin and come here. Thereafter, whatever Temüjin said, Chila’un seemed ready to reply to without hesitation. Although Temüjin never spoke directly of such things to these two brothers, in their own minds their only choice was to throw their support firmly behind Temüjin.
With the passage of time, tradesmen from various other locales also made their way to Temüjin’s camp. Although their numbers were never large, Temüjin gradually gained a certain latitude in his life, and best of all the movements of the various peoples on the Mongolian plateau became known to him.
Temüjin learned that the most powerful man on the plateau at present was the chief of the Kereyids, To’oril Khan. Under his leadership, the Kereyid people were in constant training with the objective of battle. Temüjin had once seen a small group of youngsters in perpetual military practice among the Unggirads, the native group of his wife, Börte. Among the Kereyids, however, all 30,000 men and boys were in training as soldiers. In peacetime they tended their sheep and horses, but as soon as some issue arose, they immediately shed their farm clothes, switched into military garb, and lined up in prearranged military detachments with their weapons in hand. Temüjin admired the Unggirads’ practice of protecting pasture-land and tents, but when he heard tales of the Kereyid people, he saw clearly that the Unggirads were no match for them. Temüjin had heard of the reputation of the Kereyid chief To’oril Khan from many different sources. And now he learned that this man harbored ambitions to pacify the other peoples of the Mongolian plateau and become their sovereign.
Temüjin made up his mind to meet this To’oril Khan. It struck him as clearly beneficial on all fronts to get to know the man. Temüjin was now the head of a settlement, albeit still quite small. Were he to show him every appropriate courtesy and seek his assistance, for his part To’oril Khan would surely not take an indifferent attitude toward him. Furthermore, his father, Yisügei, had enjoyed a period of close friendship with To’oril Khan. In his last years, Yisügei had been tied up trying to resolve problems involving his own people and had been unable to visit or meet with To’oril Khan frequently, but the pact the two of them had made as youths would have continued right down to the present without alteration.
Temüjin sounded out his circle of colleagues about going to the camp of the leader of the Kereyids to seek friendly relations. He consulted, of course, with Qasar and Belgütei, but also with Bo’orchu, Chimbai, and Chila’un. He even spoke about this matter with his mother, Ö’elün, and his wife, Börte. Needless to say, no one offered any opposition.
Ö’elün pointed out that he ought to bring with him as a memento for To’oril Khan the very finest possession they presently owned. Aside from sheep and horses, though, there was nothing in Temüjin’s camp worthy of the description. Although she had been silent until this point, Börte said:
“I have a black sable robe that my mother brought into this home as a gift.” Temüjin immediately agreed that this would do. It was surely superior to anything Temüjin presently had in his yurt.
Together with his two brothers Qasar and Belgütei, Temüjin took the sable robe and went to pay a visit to To’oril Khan at the Kereyid encampment in the forest by the banks of the Tula River. Compared to the Unggirad settlement, that of the Kereyids was far simpler, with a gloomy atmosphere prevailing. This mood indicated just how poorly off these people were. Many sheep and horses covered the extensive grasslands, and many were the tents of those peoples who made a living this way. Temüjin thought he now understood the reason that To’oril Khan, despite having large numbers of lineage members and excellent fighting skills, had not gone out of his way to seek trouble with other lineages.
At the back of a large tent, Temüjin and his brothers met with To’oril Khan, a slender man in his fifties with a coldness in his eyes.
“Our father, Yisügei,” said Temüjin, “called you anda, a blood brother, and therefore you are like a father to us as well. My wife’s mother brought a sable robe as a gift for her daughter’s father-in-law. Inasmuch as my father is no longer living, I would like to present it to you as my father’s equal.”
He then placed the present before To’oril Khan, who was extremely pleased. He acted as though he had never before received such an extravagant gift. His delight aside, though, his words were harsh:
“You little urchins without a father, you’re awfully generous.” In To’oril Khan’s eyes, Temüjin and his brothers still did not amount to full-fledged men.
“In return for this black sable robe, should the opportunity come in future, I’ll gather together your people who’ve separated from you. Once I’ve sworn something, I never violate a vow. You suffered worse in the past, my little chickens, and while you’ve grown a bit, you’re still weaklings.”
Temüjin and his party were ultimately not treated as adults and had to leave To’oril Khan’s camp. For his own part, though, Temüjin never retained any displeasure toward To’oril Khan as a person. Compared to To’oril Khan, who could mobilize a force of 30,000 men at a moment’s notice, the three brothers headed by 18year-old Temüjin really were little more than urchins, chickens, and weaklings.
The three brothers rode their horses to a wooded area known as the Black Forest, where there was a Kereyid settlement, and traversed it. A cool, somewhat severe atmosphere hung over the camp there, with the young Kereyids who never laughed silently cutting a path through the forest. The face of every one of the young men bore a striking resemblance to To’oril Khan with the stern brow and cold eyes. The people of this lineage, thought Temüjin, had an innate imperturbability.
When he returned to his own settlement, Temüjin noted to himself that the men there should have a facial expression like that of the Kereyid youngsters. He woke up early the next morning and spent the entire day working in the pasturelands. When night came, he mounted his horse and practiced shooting arrows and wielding his dagger and spear. Qasar and Belgütei, as well as Qachi’un, who was still young but trying hard to grow up, and Temüge all followed him. Bo’orchu, Chimbai, and Chila’un, along with a dozen or so Unggirad men, all followed Temüjin’s example.
In equestrian skills no one excelled Qasar, while Bo’orchu was unsurpassed in mounted archery. Belgütei was best at maneuvering the large dagger, and the squinting Chila’un was supreme in shooting arrows. No one could match Chimbai in martial arts, but he also demonstrated exceptional talent in tailing people and seeking out the movements of others.
Although Ö’elün came into contact almost every day with these young subordinates of Temüjin, she paid close attention to all manner of detail and deplored the fact that there were no young girls with the particular talents of serving girls and maidservants. The discontent Ö’elün had with life in this camp was twofold: the absence of such youngsters and the fact that Börte had not given birth to a child. To Ö’elün’s way of thinking, a woman who did not give birth was not a woman. On this point Börte herself felt deeply ashamed. As her father, Dei Sechen, put it, she had to bear numerous cubs with the blood of the wolf, who would crush every last Tayichi’ud, every last Tatar, and even every last Unggirad. This she wanted to do ever so much.
Of Ö’elün’s two worries, she was able finally to resolve the problem of training young people to be attentive servants as needed. One day an older man by the name of Jarchi’udai came to their camp, carrying on his shoulders a smith’s bellows, accompanied by a young fellow. Ö’elün knew the old man, and Temüjin too remembered him, for when Temüjin was four or five years old he had left their camp and moved to a place deep in the region of Mount Burqan, where he built a hut and lived a solitary life.
“When you were born,” the old man said to Temüjin, “I presented you with fur swaddling in congratulation. I gave you Jelme here, and from that time forward you and he have had a master-servant relationship. But at that time, given that Jelme was only three years old, I kept him by my side, and I have trained him myself until this day. Jelme has now also reached manhood. Please use him as you see fit. Have him saddle your horse or open the door to your tent.” And, so saying, he introduced his son to Temüjin.
From that day forward the young man became a member of Temüjin’s circle. Three years Temüjin’s senior, he was dark complexioned and undistinguished in appearance. A man of simplicity and honesty, he worked faithfully on every task given him. He thus inconspicuously but gently saw to the needs of the maidservants, and soon made himself indispensable to the camp. Jelme was just the sort of young man Ö’elün had been looking for.
Life in Temüjin’s tent grew more substantial with each passing day. He worked tirelessly, for there were many necessary tasks to attend to in his own camp: to match the wealth of the Unggirads, his wife’s home lineage, with his own, and to replicate the military capacity of the Kereyids, whose leaders had, in his opinion, gained control over their people.
Until he was twenty-four years old, Temüjin worked hard to increase the number of yurts in his settlement. Aside from the fact that his wife had yet to give birth to a child, he had no major frustrations in life. Although the long-cherished desire of his mother and brothers to launch attacks on the Tayichi’uds and Tatars had yet to be accomplished, Temüjin had come to realize that this was not the sort of problem that would be solved quickly or by a youth barely over twenty. Temüjin was young, as were those in his camp.
Temüjin’s life now, as it had been around the time he and Börte had married, was not exposed to the anxiety of never knowing when and where an enemy might attack. The Tayichi’uds had no notion that they might eradicate from the earth all descendants of Yisügei once they grew up; and even if they did entertain such an idea, they did not anticipate realizing it.
Temüjin was, however, assaulted by a completely unexpected disaster. It took place one morning when fierce winter weather was imminent on the plateau. A commotion broke out in Ö’elün’s tent.
“Everyone, get up quickly,” he heard the voice of Ö’elün’s faithful old servant Qo’aqchin saying. “I can hear the beat of horses’ hoofs and the cries of battle far off in the distance.” Ö’elün jumped up first at the sound of her maid’s voice.
The commotion quickly passed from tent to tent. When Temüjin emerged in the open area in front of the camp, everyone was already up and out of their respective tents. Night had not yet given way to dawn, and the darkness of the predawn hour hung over them. The reverberation of horses’ hoofs shattering the frigid air grew steadily louder as the shouts and wails gradually grew more audible.
Temüjin ordered everyone to mount a horse and find refuge in Mount Burqan. It was uncertain how strong the enemy’s numbers were, and in any event, it was clear to him that attempting to ambush the enemy in their camp had serious drawbacks. While leading his own horse out, he kept an eye on everyone else as they mounted up. Ö’elün climbed up on her horse, as did Qasar and Temüge. Belgütei, Bo’orchu, and Jelme were also astride their saddles. Temülün was together with her mother, Ö’elün, and Börte too had mounted her horse. Qo’aqchin took its bridle. All the other men and women had now also mounted. Those without horses clung to the reins of one.
Jelme was at the head of the group, while Temüjin was at the rear, like a sheepherder urging his flock forward. To ascertain who the attackers were and how strong their force was, Bo’orchu, Qasar, and Belgütei separated from the group and rode their horses in the opposite direction.
Confusion erupted when the evacuees tried to leave through the wooden barricade surrounding the settlement, as the black shadows of several mounted soldiers appeared on the slope to the right of the camp. Temüjin entrusted the group to Jelme and then immediately turned his horse in the direction in which Bo’orchu, Qasar, and Belgütei had galloped off, toward the enemy beyond the wooden fence around the settlement. Jumping over obstacles, he rode after them at full speed.
Temüjin was reunited with Bo’orchu and the others, ready to face the enemy with a shield of a few trees growing near the edge of the slope. Although the enemy was not as numerous as they had imagined, they still had some thirty to forty men. They were riding in what seemed like a thoroughly capricious fashion to the bottom of the slope, now galloping off to the east, now to the west, but never coming directly ahead. As if to remind themselves from time to time, they shot arrows in that direction. Because Temüjin and his allies could not see the enemy clearly, it was all a very strange, uncanny experience, like seeing something by its moving silhouette.
When the arrows being fired by the enemy gradually grew more numerous, shouts were heard unexpectedly from an altogether different direction: the north, where the women and children had fled. Quickly Temüjin and his three fellow fighters doubled back to the settlement. When they jumped the wooden fence and entered the site, a group of the women and children who should have been well beyond the barrier by now came rushing back in a state of utter confusion. Jelme’s hoarse voice was calling out something and could be heard amid the pounding of horses’ hoofs, the shouts, and the screams.
Temüjin ordered Jelme to take the group that had returned back out through the rear gate of the camp, while he turned and headed toward the fence on the northern side of camp, through which the women had earlier tried to escape. Arrows came pouring down like rain. Temüjin, Belgütei, Qasar, and Bo’orchu stopped for a while in their tents, which they used as shields, and fired arrows back. Because the land beyond the fence inclined sharply, they couldn’t see the faces of the enemy who were undoubtedly advancing toward them. Then, on the far side of the barrier, gradually one mounted enemy fighter and then another began to appear and then disappear behind it. They showed no sign, though, that they were going to scale the fence and enter the camp. Temüjin and his colleagues for a long time diligently exchanged fire with the enemy. Temüjin did not leave his present location until it seemed to him that the women Jelme had been charged with leading through the back gate were far away, and he continued fighting this unexpectedly vile group who, while pressing them at their settlement, was not moving at them in any sudden attack.
Bo’orchu then came riding toward him and called out: “They’re Merkids.” Only then did Temüjin learn that his opponents were not Tayichi’uds.
When it became apparent that arrows were now coming at them not just from the east and north but from all directions, Temüjin ordered the three young men with him to abandon the settlement and escape into the mountains. It was useless and highly dangerous to try to remain there any longer. Bo’orchu took the lead and headed toward the rear gate. Temüjin, Qasar, and Belgütei followed in that order. When they cleared the fence, they could see nothing of the women and children anywhere. It seemed that Jelme had led them shrewdly to make good their escape.
As soon as they were beyond the fence, Qasar yelled:
“Scatter!”
And scatter they all did, each steering his horse in whatever direction he sought. Temüjin headed with typical persistence straight for the grasslands to the west, switched directions midway, and rode up the expansive, slow incline at the foothills of Mount Burqan. No more arrows were being shot at him. He could see the minuscule figures of Qasar and Belgütei riding their horses up the slope of Mount Burqan, climbing higher and higher. Only Bo’orchu could not be seen, which somewhat worried Temüjin. Eventually, from an unexpected direction, Bo’orchu appeared as a tiny, skilled horseman.
That afternoon, Temüjin and Qasar, Belgütei, and Bo’orchu were able to rendezvous more or less at the same time. That evening the brigade of women and children led by Jelme joined them.
When he saw Temüjin and the others, Jelme asked:
“Did you see Börte?”
As he explained, when Börte left through the rear gate, she abandoned her horse and got into a black covered cart next to an area of dry grass. Old Qo’aqchin saw that it was drawn by an ox with a dappled design on its haunches. They fell behind the group as a result and separated from the settlement by way of the nearby farmland so as to fool the invaders. Her horse had been injured, so Börte had no choice but to pursue this means of escape.
After he decided on a site for them to pitch camp, Temüjin spent from that night until the next morning riding back and forth in search of Börte, over the slope of Mount Burqan with its outcrop-pings of trees, grassy areas, and crags. But nowhere was he able to locate a trace of her.
On the fourth day following their ascent of the mountain, Temüjin sent Bo’orchu, Belgütei, and Jelme out on a reconnaissance mission over the foothills. Having thus learned that the Merkids had left the entire region, he descended Mount Burqan at the head of his lineage of men and women.
Only later did he learn that the attackers were a group led by three Merkid men, each with a different surname. News of old Qo’aqchin and Börte was, as before, not to be had. After about a month had passed, Temüjin learned that Qo’aqchin and Börte had been seized and taken prisoner to a Merkid village, where they were presently residing.
When he thought of Börte, Temüjin became insane with anger, but he was not going to offer up another sacrifice, and the fact that he and the others had been able to return to their own settlement did indeed make him happy. Because they had received the protection of Mount Burqan when they had all escaped into its environs, Temüjin decided to offer a prayer of thanks to it.
Since Börte was no longer among them, Temüjin gathered the members of his settlement together before their now deserted camp and had them construct an altar there. Temüjin then said to them:
“Through the grace of this Mount Burqan, we were protected from the Merkids. Because of this Mount Burqan, our insignificant, antlike, licelike lives were saved. Every morning sacrifice to Burqan! Every day pray to Burqan! And pass on this memory through our Borjigin descendants!”
Temüjin then stood facing Mount Burqan. He took the two symbols of authority and hung his belt around his neck and took his hat in his hand. Placing a hand on his chest, he knelt and poured some mare’s milk onto the ground. After repeating this nine times, he offered up his prayer.
Bitter times were now come to Temüjin. With Börte kidnapped by the Merkids, all of nature surrounding him seemed completely to change its complexion. What he had to do now was to seize her back. To that end, Temüjin had subordinates who, he believed, would risk their lives for him without regret, but they were so few that it would have been reckless to launch an attack on the large Merkid settlement.
Any number of times, Chimbai with the large head volunteered and went off on spying missions to the Merkid village, but his report upon returning was always the same:
“The Merkids have placed fifty sentinels around the outside of their settlement. Getting inside their camp without being detected by them would be an act even a field mouse couldn’t perform.”
Judging by Chimbai’s report, the Merkids were expecting Temüjin and his men to retaliate and had stepped up their vigilance.
As if this was part of the task assigned to him, Chimbai waited two or three days after returning from his mission and then set out once again to the Merkid settlement. This time when he returned he had much to report on from having entered the settlement. Thus, Temüjin now was even able to gain detailed information about the number of Merkid horses.
Chimbai’s most important finding was the fact that the Merkids’ surprise attack was not some capricious adventure on their part. In the more than twenty years since Yisügei had taken Ö’elün back from a young Merkid, they had never forgotten this event. As an act of revenge, they had seized Temüjin’s young bride. Their plan had been set at the time that Temüjin brought Börte into his settlement, and until the present day they had been awaiting a prime opportunity to execute it.
Several months had now passed since Börte’s disappearance from the camp, and with the new year Temüjin turned twenty-five, biding his time—just as the Merkids expected—looking for an opportunity to take his revenge on them. Unlike the Merkids, though, Temüjin was not the sort of man who could wait for over twenty years. If he were to detect an unguarded moment on their part and take advantage of it, he was prepared to do so today or tomorrow, as need be.
Temüjin pushed memories of Börte’s glistening hair and the white nape of her neck from his mind. Whenever such a memory floated into his conscious thoughts, Temüjin felt his entire body fill up with a ferocious rage that this youth could not control.
When Chimbai returned to camp from his reconnaissance missions, Temüjin always listened to his report directly, and he never asked any questions. Temüjin was taciturn, but another level of taciturnity had overcome him. So that his face would not show anyone anything of his inner feelings, he had girded himself even more rigidly so that no expression would appear.
There was, however, one exception. When Chimbai completed his report this time, Temüjin moved his mouth slightly. Unable to hear if Temüjin had said anything, Chimbai urged him to speak further. Then, Temüjin quietly muttered:
“How is Börte?”
Chimbai could barely make out these words. He did not respond for a moment. Temüjin then said in a low voice, more clearly than before, “How is Börte?” His eyes were acutely focused on Chimbai’s.
Chimbai replied resignedly with only a few words: “She’s become the wife of a young man named Chiledü.”
When he heard Chimbai’s answer, for a moment Temüjin’s complexion changed, but he then straightened up and left Chimbai.
This was the first time that Börte’s name had been spoken by either man. Temüjin became even more resolutely uncommunicative, always showing a severe expression on his face. And he now never laughed.
After her abduction, Börte’s name became completely taboo in the settlement. It was never mentioned by Ö’elün, by Qasar, by his young sister, Temülün, or by any of the maidservants.
About a month after Chimbai had responded to Temüjin’s question and blurted out the information about Börte, Temüjin consulted with Qasar, Belgütei, and Bo’orchu on the matter he had been thinking over day and night in the interim: a raid on the Merkid village to recover Börte. All the men would take part, and protecting the settlement would be the job of the women. Until this point, never had any lineage left the care of a settlement in the hands of powerless women, but in this instance Temüjin decided that he would arm the women and have them guard the camp once the men had departed. He wanted to add every male available to the raiding party.
Qasar, Belgütei, and Bo’orchu all agreed. Temüjin had already firmly decided what he proposed to them. His young colleagues knew this only too well. Whether it was reckless of them or not, they had to set a plan in motion now. The men of the settlement—including the older men—numbered fewer than thirty.
Temüjin decided that the planned raid would be some twenty days hence, when the moon was at its slightest. The Merkid settlement was south of Lake Baikal, near the confluence point of the Orkhon and Selengge rivers. Even if they rode their horses slowly, it was a trip of only a few days and one that Chimbai knew well, as he had taken it any number of times.
With that settled, on virtually a daily basis all the dozen or more women—beginning with Ö’elün and, of course, seventeen-year-old Temülün—took up weapons and began their training in how to defend the settlement. Temüjin assigned instruction of the women to Bo’orchu, while he along with Qasar, Belgütei, and an additional number of horses paid a visit to To’oril Khan, chief of the Kereyids, in his village. Temüjin was hoping to borrow from the Kereyid leader some of his superior weapons. Because his men numbered fewer than thirty, he wanted at least their fighting implements to be fine specimens. Their horses were excellent, having borne up under all manner of warfare, but their weaponry was not at all uniformly satisfactory. Furthermore, the women would have to have arms in the settlement, and there were too few of them at present. Temüjin wanted to see that the younger men who were ready to defy death for him had the best weapons and armor that could possibly be made.
Temüjin, Qasar, and Belgütei rode upstream beside the Orkhon River for several days, until they reached the Kereyid camp situated in the Black Forest by the banks of the Tula River. When he met To’oril Khan, Temüjin confided to him all the facts of the case. To’oril Khan looked at the three visitors with the same cold brow and eyes. After thinking for a moment, he suddenly changed his expression and said:
“Orphaned son of Yisügei, do you not remember that I swore an oath to you? In return for your gift of a black sable robe, I said that I would gather your people who had scattered from you. It would seem that that time has come. I shall rally my forces for you, orphaned son of Yisügei. I shall take my army and kill every last Merkid camped south of Lake Baikal, and return your wife, Börte, to you.”
To’oril Khan then cut himself off momentarily before continuing in a slower voice, his cold eyes shining even more frigidly than before:
“You little chickens are just starting to grow up now. I am going to offer you a return gift for the robe of black sable. First, with an army of 20,000 men, I shall set out from here as the right hand. You proceed to the base of Jamugha, chief of the Jadarans, who is encamped at the dry bed of the Qorqonaq River, and convey my message to him: ‘To’oril Khan is about to mobilize an army of 20,000 and massacre all of the Merkids for the son of Yisügei. Jamugha, you shall go as his left hand, and you set the meeting place and time.’”
Temüjin stared at To’oril Khan in utter amazement. He had never seen a person who could in such a short time make such a momentous decision. His cold mien was suited to the resolution he was coming to.
When he left To’oril Khan’s camp, Temüjin had, to say the least, successfully disposed of the matter of borrowing weaponry, the objective of his visit, so he remounted and headed back to his own settlement. En route the three brothers scarcely stopped to rest. When they arrived, Temüjin alone remained behind, while Qasar and Belgütei reloaded their horses with bags of food and set off promptly for Jamugha’s base.
Jamugha was a descendant of a brother of Qabul, the first of the Mongol khans, and thus he belonged to the Borjigin people. He was about five years older than Temüjin, who knew him by sight. Although he was only five or six years old at the time, Temüjin had played with Jamugha when the latter came with his father to pay a call on Yisügei’s camp. The image remained in Temüjin’s head even now of this roly-poly, friendly boy who took quickly to strangers. Even men much older than he found him stunningly precocious, and the words that came from his mouth startled the adults around him.
From that time forward, Jamugha’s family split off from the Tayichi’ud lineage, to whom they were related by blood, and from Temüjin’s Borjigin lineage. With their own independent camp, they called themselves the Jadarans. Jamugha expanded their camp remarkably, so that its importance outstripped that of all other Mongol lineages, far surpassing the Tayichi’uds. Temüjin had acquired this information much earlier. Jamugha had sworn an oath of friendship with To’oril Khan and assumed the status of a younger brother to him.
On the morning of the fifth day, Qasar and Belgütei, the envoys to Jamugha, were exhausted to the point that they could barely move. They left their horses before Temüjin’s tent and went in to relate to him their meeting with Jamugha.
“Jamugha said that he had heard that Temüjin was a victim of a Tayichi’ud attack, and it pained him deeply. At To’oril Khan’s encouragement, he is now mustering an army, he says, whose sole gratification it will be to work tirelessly for Temüjin. He said that they shall presently storm the upper reaches of the Kilgho River, make rafts out of the green grasses, enter the plateau where the Merkids are camped, and demolish the tents. And, he said, they will take the women and children captive and kill all the Merkid men until the lineage has disappeared.”
Qasar made this report while panting from exhaustion. Belgütei then continued in his stead:
“Jamugha said: ‘As we set off for war, I shall pour mare’s milk on the earth. I shall beat my drum covered with the skin of a black ox. I shall wear stiff clothing and ride my black horse. I shall carry my metal spear and notch a peach-bark arrow in my bow. I shall be waiting for To’oril Khan’s troops in the evening ten days hence at Botoghan Bo’orji. Even if there is a mighty blizzard, do not be late for this meeting! Even if the earth should rumble, do not be late! My blood brother, To’oril Khan!’”
Jamugha’s words as conveyed by Qasar and Belgütei were immediately passed along to Bo’orchu and from there to To’oril Khan’s base in the Black Forest.
Everything was moving along far more favorably than Temüjin had ever imagined. That 40,000 troops were being called up on Temüjin’s behalf seemed almost dreamlike. As Temüjin’s two arms, two forces were with each passing hour spreading over a corner of the plateau, aimed at the Merkid camp located near the confluence of the Orkhon and Selengge rivers.
Compared to the forces of To’oril Khan and Jamugha, Temüjin’s far inferior band of some 30 men made its way to the designated site on the agreed-upon day. The 20,000-man army under Jamugha had already arrived, while To’oril Khan’s 20,000-man army came three days late, despite his own firm resolve.
Although it had been fifteen or more years since Temüjin had last seen Jamugha, the latter had lost nothing of the image he conveyed in their childhood. Unlike To’oril Khan, he always had a gentle smile on his face. His plump torso gave the impression of an energetic man about to enter middle age who, to be sure, was a little too heavy. His call to battle, delivered in a high-pitched voice that Temüjin had learned of from Qasar and Belgütei, seemed to have emerged from the mouth of an affable man.
The invasion began the following morning. With rafts made from the green grasses, the army of 40,000 crossed the Orkhon River, formed ranks, and marched forward like floodwaters onto the grasslands where the Merkids had their sphere of influence. One by one they swallowed up the small Merkid settlements.
The Merkids mobilized 10,000 men and pitched camp around their yurts. The decisive battle, though, was over in just a day. Temüjin led several hundred men entrusted to his leadership by To’oril Khan, launching an assault on the Merkids, who were thrown into disarray along the fighting front and sought refuge in their own settlements. Having given up their will to resist, the majority of Merkid forces quietly tried to disappear into their settlements. Temüjin sought out their tents one by one.
In no time at all he located Börte and old Qo’aqchin. They had sought shelter in the corner of a yurt, not knowing that the invasion that had come upon them was Temüjin’s strategy for their recovery. When she saw Temüjin enter their yurt, Börte let out a quiet scream of surprise.
Temüjin said not a word to Börte. Entrusting her to his brother Qasar, he quickly returned to the camp on the grasslands where To’oril Khan and Jamugha were. Temüjin thanked his two benefactors profusely for their cooperation.
To’oril Khan and Jamugha then stationed their respective troops at sites about a mile away, but neither of them was especially anxious to depart. This action on the part of these two men struck Temüjin as altogether different from the image they had conveyed before the fighting. They seemed to him to be checking each other in some way.
During this time, a great massacre of the Merkids was taking place. Whether old or very young, all men faced the same fate of being put to death. Almost every day, a line of Merkid men being transported to the execution ground at the dry riverbed traversed the grasslands. The women were assembled on level ground that appeared to be exactly midway between the camps of To’oril Khan and Jamugha. All of their household effects were piled up like a mountain near the same spot.
Temüjin and his small number of subordinates pitched three tents near the settlement from which the Merkids had been emptied and made their camp there. The stench of dead bodies was everywhere and flowed into Temüjin’s camp day and night.
One day Temüjin received a message from To’oril Khan to come and take his portion of the divided women and booty. He had not had the rights to a full share and did not want it. Temüjin thus went to To’oril Khan’s tent and explained himself, but the old Kereyid chief would not take no for an answer. Jamugha was in agreement with him on this point. Although it was they who had mobilized the armies, Temüjin had participated in the fighting, and he had thus earned the right to share in the spoils, they claimed. Ultimately, Temüjin would not accede to their position and adamantly refused to receive a share.
Numerous articles of plunder and several thousand women were divided in the presence of the many troops, with one group going to To’oril Khan’s camp and the other to Jamugha’s. Flocks of sheep and herds of horses covering the grasslands only a few hundred yards away were similarly apportioned. There were, though, some things that could not be dealt with: the grasslands, fields, mountains, and valleys. These were far from the Kereyid camp and from Jamugha’s camp. The plateau was closest to Temüjin’s small settlement.
If To’oril Khan and Jamugha were to withdraw, Temüjin thought, he could make this expansive piece of land his own. Of course, even if he did own it, right now there was nothing he could do with it, but if the number of those under his command were to increase, he would surely be able to arrange them in such a way that they served at innumerable points over the great Mongolian plateau.
Temüjin made Bo’orchu the chief of half of his roughly thirty subordinates and sent them back to the settlement that was still being protected solely by the womenfolk. Henceforth, the rest were permitted to pitch camp in the environs of the now empty Merkid camp. Although Qasar and Belgütei soon wished to return to their settlement, Temüjin had no such desire. Until the armies of To’oril Khan and Jamugha departed, it was not proper form for him to do so, and there was as well one thing on his mind that Temüjin had not decided.
What was he to do with Börte? When he had located her, he had merely exchanged glances with Börte. Every day the image of her had floated into Temüjin’s mind, though the figure that he saw now was somewhat different from the Börte that had appeared in his mind’s eye back at the camp in the foothills of Mount Burqan. She was wearing light green clothing, and her brownish hair and white skin glistened as before, but one spot on her body was different. Her skirt had unusually expanded. It was the night of the great massacre when the Merkid settlement had fallen, but Temüjin had certainly not observed incorrectly. Without a doubt, Börte had become pregnant.
Although he had entrusted Börte to Qasar, Temüjin did not later ask what had happened with her. Qasar had accepted his elder brother’s wife into his care, but he made no mention of her whatsoever. This only proved to Temüjin further that he had not erred.
One day Temüjin called for Chimbai to come into his tent. In the instant he looked at Chimbai’s face, his mind was settled. He now felt that he had no choice but to ask Chimbai his opinion, and then the matter would be solved probably in accordance with his reply. This was not something that Börte sought for herself.
“Tell Qasar to bring Börte here,” Temüjin told Chimbai. Chimbai left immediately, and soon Qasar entered his tent. With a stiff look, Qasar merely said:
“Börte’s in a tent two down from here.”
Sensing something strange in Qasar’s words, Temüjin just left his tent and walked over to the one she was in. Rays of light came down at an angle from the window. Börte was lying in bed. Temüjin then suddenly saw the figure of a baby at her side. Peeping in, he saw old Qo’aqchin stooping forward toward her.
Temüjin approached the bed. Börte appeared weak as she looked up at him. He remained silent as she pointed to the infant with her eyes. A faint smile floated onto her delicate face, and she said something to Temüjin:
“Give him a name, please.” These were indeed the words he heard.
“You want me to give him a name?” he said.
“He’s your child,” she now said with unexpected clarity in her tone of voice.
“I don’t know if he’s my child or not,” said Temüjin, spurning her, to which she replied:
“Where is there any proof that he is not your son?”
She spoke with a firm desperation. For a moment while he himself was unaware of it, Temüjin walked around the inside of the tent. He simply could not sit still just now. There were so many things he had to think over.
“There’s no proof whatsoever that he’s not your son, is there? I don’t know of it, and you don’t know of it.” Börte’s voice entered Temüjin’s ears, but he did not accept it. There was no room left in his mind.
Unable to control the confused look on his face, Temüjin stood still. Then, in a slightly dry voice, he said: “Jochi.”
“Jochi?” Börte replied with a question. The word jochi had the meaning “guest.” This was the name that his pained, confused mind selected for the baby Börte had given birth to, a child whose father remained unknown, just as had been true in his own case.
That Temüjin had acceded to her request and given the child she had borne a name meant in effect that he had forgiven her everything. Had he not done so, he would certainly not have gone to the trouble of assigning a name to a child who might have been the son of another lineage. He decided that he would treat this infant his wife, Börte, had delivered as a guest in his home.
For a long time, Temüjin stared at the face of the infant lying beside Börte in bed. Just as he tormented himself over whether or not Mongol blood flowed in his own veins, this child would in future bear such doubts. And just as he would have to prove that there was Mongol blood in his body by becoming a wolf, so too would Jochi have to become a wolf and bear up under the destiny toward which he was necessarily headed.
“I shall be a wolf, and you too are to become a wolf!” said Temüjin in his heart. These were the first words Temüjin offered to his eldest son Jochi. As words of a father to his son in this context, they were said with an unsurpassable, profound love.
Börte remained silent, in no way indicating her will with respect to the name Jochi that Temüjin had given the baby. Was she satisfied? Did she disapprove? From the expression on her face, there was no way to tell what was in her heart of hearts. Eventually, she quietly turned her face toward Temüjin. Although she was still quite weak, her face had a brightness unusual for a woman just out of childbirth. But from the eyes on her bright face, tears were welling up and flowing onto her cheeks in two clear lines.
Temüjin left the baby’s side and looked down on the face of the beautiful one for whom he had so long been searching.
“I have sent a messenger to the Unggirads,” he said to his wife, for the first time speaking in gentle words. “Your father, Dei Sechen, and your mother, Chotan, were both very happy.”
Temüjin’s view of women generally at this time was fixed as a stationary concept and was not to change throughout his life. Although he could recognize a woman’s beauty, love, and fidelity, he could not believe that such things were constant. Whatever had any value would always be unstable to the extent that women possessed it. And neither his wife, Börte, nor his mother, Ö’elün, was an exception to this rule. There was always the defect that she could give birth to “a guest.” If his wife or, for that matter, his mother could give birth to a wolf with Mongol blood, then she could just as easily give birth to a Merkid, a Tatar, or a Kereyid. She was a container that bore a child who strangely and generously accepted the blood of any ethnic group at all. How was it that the wife who loved him and whom he loved could give birth to a child with enemy blood?
Although Temüjin trusted the men under his command for their loyalty, their courage, and their sacrifice, he could not trust women in the same way. There was no basis on which to establish such trust. Once a woman had something, only while she possessed it were her beauty, her love, and her fidelity her own. The men he commanded would never change, even if conquered by and forced to submit to another lineage, but aside from when a man embraced a woman in bed, she was troublesome because he could never consider her his own.
Temüjin wanted to have Börte as his wife forever. To that end he realized he would have to be so strong that no one would ever be able to take her from him.
“From now on, I shall never be more than a moment away from you,” he said. “And you shall always remain perfectly faithful.”
He did not say that he loved her or that he had always loved her. Such words were powerless and of no value at all. Temüjin merely announced that he possessed her, though this was a confession on his part of his love for her.