Temujin and his friends, Jamuga Sechen, Chepe Noyon and Subodai, and his brother, Kasar, came in at sunset, jubilant. Temujin loved white stallions, and his father had given him one on an occasion when he was pleased with him. The youth had come upon a huge bear unexpectedly, and had slain him with his short dagger, a prodigious feat. The white stallion was a gift. Henceforth, Temujin would ride no other sort of horse. But Jamuga Sechen preferred black horses, small and fleet and compact, with his own narrow grace. Chepe Noyon loved gay horses, that would cavort in high spirits. His steed was a young mottled mare with a knowing and flirtatious eye, and an arched tail. Subodai, whom Kurelen called the distillation of pure virtue, rode a gray mare who could drift like a spectral shadow, almost unseen, through herds and through groups of men.
Yesukai’s ordu had reached the winter pastures. The greenish-gray steppes were rimed at sunset with gray drops of frozen crystal. Beyond this dim sea of tall and whispering grass were far and floating masses of violet hills, scuttled out by ghostly rose. But the west was a lake of dark and savage scarlet, and the figures of the five young horsemen loomed against it, black and sharp and featureless, as they rode swiftly, shouting, through the bending grasses. The hunt had been good, that day. Each youth rode his horse as though part of it, straight young back swayed lightly with the movement of the animal, strong straight legs stiffened in the stirrups. Their high pointed hats cut the sunset like black daggers; their felt coats were belted about their narrow hard waists; their bow-cases were slung on their backs. But featureless and colorless though they were, Kurelen knew each youth by his silhouette against the burning sky. There was Temujin, taller than the others on his taller horse, riding with a wild and quiet pride, like a horseman running down the slope of the heavens from some mysterious other world. About him rode his friends, young paladins of a king, a kind of savage dignity about them, splendor in the poise of their heads and the straightness of their shoulders.
Kurelen reflected that Temujin had the ability to inspire devotion in good and brave and valorous men, and often, in men nobler than himself. Among those who loved him sincerely were none of flawed and cunning character, none who followed him for sheer self-gain. Kurelen wondered at this, for Temujin was a somber and furious youth at times, hasty, harsh and implacable, unbending and often inexorable. He had little patience in small matters, and could be most brutal and exigent Yet in him was the best of Mongol generosity and fearlessness, and his word, once given to a friend, would never be broken. He was honest with Mongol honesty, which was simple and primitive. If he were ever subtle, it was not with the sublety of Jamuga, but with the deep and innocent subtlety which was yet more profound than the other’s. In time, Temujin would be a wise and ferocious man, magnificent, endowed with primal and heroic dignity. But it was not all these things which inspired the devotion of his friends. It was something in the glance of his gray eye, steadfast and eaglelike, something in his lifted profile, with its slumbering aspect of awful power and ageless strength. This was a youth fashioned by the mysterious agents of supernatural power to be a king among men, an instrument made by the gods for some dreadful but splendid purpose of their own. And it was all this that Temujin’s friends knew without conscious awareness.
He could inspire devotion in men like Kasar, childlike and unthinking, like the greater mass of mankind. He could inspire love in those like Jamuga, who loved philosophy and wisdom and thought He could draw the affection of those like Chepe Noyon, gay adventurers, courageous, laughing, eager and resistless. And then, strangest of all, this youth without pure virtue could seize the passionate adherence of those like Subodai, silent thoughtful, brave, pure, devoted and lofty. In truth, here was an embryo khan of all men, to whose banner of the yak tails would flock every kind of spirit, including those like Belgutei, who followed a victor in order to share in the spoils.
Kurelen often remarked that in the presence of unsullied virtue, like that of Subodai, men were crestfallen and uneasy, or inspired with selfless love, or convulsed with remorseless malignancy and hatred. Subodai had the face and body of a young god, beautiful and quiet and meditative. His smile was a gleam, his glance like a shaft of light. His voice was low and sweet. He had never been known to do a cruel thing, or a treacherous one. Yet none was braver than he, none more without fear, none swifter with the sword nor more graceful on a horse. Sometimes Kurelen suspected that he was more profound than Jamuga, with his wan and bitter lip, and his deep and jealous eye. But Subodai spoke very simply, so that the dullest man could comprehend. His enemies were more venomous than the enemies of Temujin, and those who loved him loved him even more deeply than they loved the young son of the Khan. Kurelen had taught him to read. Jamuga was free and lucid with comments during the lessons, but Subodai listened in silence, his still, dark-blue eyes fixed lambently on Kurelen’s lips, his face like pale and burnished bronze. To the end of his life, no one ever knew what he thought, not even Kurelen, who could only guess. The Shaman hated him more than he did Jamuga Sechen, who might at times be beguiled by a clever phrase.
Subodai knew more about horses than did Chepe Noyon, who understood their language. When he sat his shadowy gray mare, with the morning light upon his face, it seemed to many that this was some beautiful and majestic spirit who communicated his thought to his steed by a mere breath or sigh or touch. He had a genius for organizing potent cavalry, and though he was still very young, Yesukai had already appointed him the master of the younger horsemen, which Chepe Noyon had copiously and humorously resented. But no one, not even the most ambitious, could long be resentful of this chivalrous youth, who offended none except by the very effulgence of his nature and his soul, and the beauty of his aspect.
Kasar was jealous of him, as was Jamuga Sechen, for at times it appeared to them that Temujin loved Subodai more than themselves. But at other times Temujin was uneasy with Subodai, and seemed impatient, and would avoid him. These were the times, commented Kurelen, when Temujin’s actions would not conspicuously bear the light of day.
For the rest, Subodai was a flutist of marvellous accomplishment, and when he played it seemed to many that it was not a silver instrument he held in his lips, but that it was the very voice of his spirit that they heard. Through the medium of his flute Subodai’s heart was made manifest, so poignant and thrilling in every note that solemn tears would rise to the eyes of those who heard.
When Subodai was amused, he did not laugh outright like the hearty Mongols, who loved laughter almost as much as they loved hunting and raiding. But his entire face, from his eyes down to his lips, became illuminated, and at once he seemed the very soul of mirth and lightness.
It was significant, thought Kurelen, as the young men rode so gallantly into the tent village, that they had assumed the appropriate places about Temujin, who rode in the center of his followers. On his right hand was his anda, Jamuga Sechen, on his left, Subodai, the chivalrous. Behind him trotted the simple and faithful Kasar. Cavorting wildly back and forth, making forays, falling behind, galloping up and circling, with shouts, came the gay adventurer Chepe Noyon. But always, like a lodestone, Temujin drew about him, magnetically and irresistibly, the bodies and hearts of his followers. This vehement and tempestuous youth, with the angry gray eyes and the violent profile, had a mysterious and nameless power which none could oppose.
The spoils of the hunt having been distributed, the spirits of the young men were still high. The moon had risen now, and the distant hills had turned as black as polished ebony under its argent light, their rounded tops plated with bright silver. The long grasses of the steppes had become luminously gray, rolling like a spectral sea before the wind. The limitless sky was flooded with a milky radiance, and the air, sharp and clear as crystal, had an exciting quality in it.
The young men raced, shouting and screaming, over the steppes, cracking their whips furiously, standing up in their stirrups, their belted coats floating stiffly behind them. The dogs scampered after them, barking wildly, nipping at the heels of the galloping and rearing horses. The old men came to the doors of their yurts, and grinning, watched the race, their faded eyes bright with envy. The maidens clapped and laughed, the children shrieked. The women beside the orange campfires stirred the pots and smiled with excitement. The camels screamed thinly, tugging at their ropes; the other horses, mad with jealousy, neighed and reared. Even the cattle and the sheep lowed and bleated. When the young men finally returned to the ordu, their horses were white with foam.
Temujin and his followers gathered around Kurelen’s fire, ably tended by the mute and devoted Chassa. It was not only love that brought them. They had long ago learned that in Kurelen’s pot could be found the choicest meat and the richest gravy. In some way, he always contrived to have Turkish and Chinese sweetmeats in his silver boxes. His leather bags were always bursting with wine and kumiss. If milk were short in the ordu, it could always be found about Kurelen’s fire. Then, after dining to the point of bursting, the young men usually could persuade him to sing them the strangest songs, which stirred their blood and filled them with mysterious longing. Here they could laugh and joke and box and wrestle freely, confident of sympathy and friendship. They knew that Kurelen loved youth, however wry his tongue, and that he admired them profoundly for their beauty, strength and fearlessness. Kurelen had no dogs, for he detested them. Temujin, who had never rid himself of his terror of them, could come here and not be forced to conceal that terror from the eyes of his followers. When the young men boasted, Kurelen did not eye them with the quizzical jocoseness and acid smiles of the old men, who hated them, and envied them. Rather, he listened, one eyebrow streaking up towards his long black hair, a smile of mingled affection, interest and amusement on his long lean face. Even when he spoke venomously, they could laugh, knowing that it was mostly venom directed against himself, or at the worst, it was good-natured.
Temujin ate with a monster appetite this night. Some inner fire and excitement seemed to devour him. He drank until Kurelen, was obliged to take the sacks away from him, with a ribald and pointed remark. He insisted that each of his followers wrestle with him, and even when he threw them, one after another, the flame that consumed him did not seem quenched or lessened. His eyes glittered in the mingled firelight and moonlight. His breath was hard and audible and quick. He could not sit down, but stood near the fire, his legs straddled, his hands on his hips, his mouth stretched in panting laughter. Despite the coldness of the air, he had opened his coat and his wool robe, and his bronzed chest was damp and glistening with hot sweat.
“Sing us a song!” he cried to his uncle, and stirred up the fire to a roaring blaze.
So Kurelen sang, and those about all the near and distant campfires became quiet, as that supernal voice floated strongly and sweetly to the stars. He first sang one of Temujin’s favorite songs:
“I shall die in the saddle all booted and spurred,
I shall die with my sword in my hand.
Though oft have I faltered and oft have I erred,
As the great and the small in the land—
This be my story, wheree’er man hath trod:
He died in the saddle, he died like a god!”
“Yes, yes!” shouted Temujin, panting. “I shall die in the saddle! I shall die like a god! But not before I am Emperor of all men, the Perfect Warrior, the Mighty Ruler!”
His followers screamed with laughter at this grandiloquent statement. Chepe Noyon cried: “Khan of forty thousand tents! It is a brave empire!”
Temujin thrust out with his leg, and Chepe Noyon rolled out of his way. Then Temujin, the laughter gone from his face, glared about at his surprised friends, his dark face wrinkling and grimacing with tempestuous fury, his eyes flaming. Kurelen, about to rebuke him, suddenly was silent. He narrowed his own eyes, and thoughtfully bit his lip.
“Who is the camel who wisheth to laugh now?” cried Temujin.
Jamuga Sechen said quietly, with distaste: “Sit down, Temujin. Thou hast too much kumiss in thy belly.”
Temujin swung on him with rage. “It is said of thee, Jamuga, that thy liver is yellow, and that it spews bile into thy blood.”
Jamuga said nothing, but all at once his pale and rigid face became like bleached stone. He lifted his eyes quietly, and fixed them with a steadfast and piercing look upon the face of his anda. All the others were suddenly silent.
Temujin’s eyes were caught and held by Jamuga’s, and then his cheek flushed with shame and confusion. Kurelen thought it time to interfere.
“For a ‘Perfect Warrior’ thou hast the tongue of a windbreaking old woman, Temujin. Thou art as swollen as an overfilled bladder. Go quietly and relieve thyself, and we will wait for thee.”
The young men grinned. Temujin, panting again, his face the color of congested blood, glared at them. But Jamuga was not smiling. He had averted his head. His eyes, fixed upon the distant hills, were cold and inscrutable.
As if the words came from him without his will, and tempestuously, Temujin exclaimed: “Forgive me, Jamuga.”
Jamuga, without turning to him, without moving his eyes from the hills, said quietly: “I have already forgiven thee.”
Temujin, with an amazing drop of his spirits, sat down. He looked at his friends. Chepe Noyon was laughing a little. Kasar was glancing about, fiercely, ready to defend his brother from any ridicule, now that he was chastened. But Subodai was regarding him gravely and in silence, his beautiful face calm. It was that look that struck most sorely on Temujin’s heart, and he vowed again, as he had vowed a thousand times before, that he must better control his unruly tongue, which was like a sword that wounded his friends. He resolved that tomorrow he would give Jamuga his most cherished possession, a Chinese dagger whose silver hilt was rough with turquoises. But he reflected miserably that Jamuga’s feelings were not quickly soothed and healed. It would be several days before confidence would be restored between them. In the meantime, he, Temujin. would suffer intensely. It was during times like these that he realized how deep was his love for his anda. He loathed himself.
Subodai had asked Kurelen for his own favorite song, and now Kurelen’s voice rose again, passionate and melancholy, and again the distant campfires listened, and even the herds were silent.
“And unto me a radiant angel came,
With wings of light within a silver rain,
And in his hands, as shining as the moon,
He held the brimming wine of goblets twain.
In tones like sweetest flute he gently spake:
‘Of these two goblets thou a choice must make.
And never more, though endless suns will roll,
Canst thou recant, and of its mate partake.
In this bright cup, I hold within this hand,
Is joy eternal, in a crystal land,
Where love and life, like two immortal flames,
Burn high together from a single brand.
Thyself shalt live, where mirth alone abides,
Untouched, unchanged, while all the tides
Of change and ruin and death turn earth to dust,
And lonely in the heavens the dark sun rides.
But in this nether cup is only peace,
And only darkness and the pale release
That follows on the grave. Here is no pain,
But endless silence when thy heart doth cease.
No joy is here, no ecstasy sublime,
No sweet awareness of a scented clime.
No love, no laughter, only marble eyes
And marble lips forever mute in time,’
And troubled did I raise my glances up,
And said unto the angel, ‘I shall sup
Without regret, but with a weary sigh,
Of that pale wine within the nether cup.’”
Only the loveliness of his voice held the interest of the listeners, save for Jamuga, Subodai and Temujin. For no one understood, but these three, and then with curious and various understanding. Subodai’s beautiful face became more sad and grave; a wan restlessness moved like the shadow of rippling water over Jamuga’s eyes. But Temujin’s face darkened and tightened, as though he felt some secret contempt. He said: “That is the song of old men.”
He stood up. He looked about him with an eye that was suddenly wild and dark. And then he lifted his head and gazed piercingly at the sky. The firelight illuminated with a red glow the lower part of his face. But over this red shadow his eyes were in shadow, yet strangely, more potent because of this.
No one saw Bektor moving silently near by. No one saw him pause, nor saw his features assume an expression of black bitterness and gloomy hatred.