But Jamuga underestimated Bortei tragically when he believed that he had frightened her, or set her aside from her purpose. He had merely shown her that she must be more careful, and proceed along a different way.
Extremely guileful and without conscience or scruple, she knew how to win the confidence of others, even of one like Houlun, who was jealous, and disliked her intensely. It was not long before she convinced Houlun that her concern with the safety and well-being of Temujin was sincere and all-engrossing. At first, Houlun was inclined to be jealously resentful. But later, she was touched.
One day Bortei said to her mother-in-law: “I have no enmity for Bektor, half-brother of my husband. But I can readily see that he is a danger.”
Houlun, surprised and taken aback by the astuteness of this young girl, agreed. But what could one do? Bortei gazed at her mother-in-law’s perplexed face very reflectively. She listened to Houlun’s honest defense of Bektor, and nodded gravely when the older woman suggested that the best course was a reconcilation between the two young men. But Houlun, later, had the uneasy sensation that the grave nod had been merely diplomatic, and Bortei had not believed this at all.
Bortei believed in herself that there are some natures which can never be reconciled nor comprehended by each other. Or, at best, the reconciliation could be only tentative. This was not a matter to cause worry, if there were not some external and dangerous circumstances to be considered, also. But in the matter of Temujin, there were external and dangerous circumstances. Moreover, Bortei believed reconciliations were very good, provided that they did not take undue time. If the reconciliations demanded a long period of finesse and delicacy, then the intelligent man ruthlessly refused to consider them. He must eliminate his enemy. Life was too short to take circuitous routes, even in the cause of mercy and sweetness. It was better to hack down a flowering tree that impeded one’s path than to go laboriously around it. Thus, coldly, she reasoned.
She knew that Temujin had no time to spare. Moreover, very shrewdly, she began to guess that he would make haste upon a plan suggested by another, if he had already decided on this plan heretofore. So, tactfully and carefully, she approached him upon the danger inherent in the very existence of Bektor. She pretended to speak reluctantly, giving him to understand that it was only her intense love and devotion to him which impelled her to speak. After all, she said, gazing at Temujin with the frozen gray of her eyes, a man must resent any innuendoes about his own brother, even if they came from his wife. The gray of her eyes became artless; she was very careful not to let Temujin suspect that she knew of the enmity between him and his brother.
Temujin listened with interest, his face gloomy and suspicious. But his eyes softened in spite of himself, as he looked at his beautiful wife, whom he loved with intense passion and lust, and yet with something stranger and deeper than these. She sat at his feet as she talked in her soft, loving and regretful voice, and she let him twine his fingers awkwardly in her red-tinged dark hair. She leaned forward a little so that he could see the modelling of her high and lovely breasts with their conical nipples. Versed in the ways of women, she had carelessly extended one leg, and the wool of her robe sculptured it, revealing the round thigh and the slenderness of dainty calf. She talked reason with him, but artfully colored that reason with an invitation to desire. She knew that the arguments of a woman are more potent if accompanied by lustful suggestion, and that even wisdom is received without resentment when it comes with the face of youth and the odor of femaleness. Mingled with her primal knowledge was her contempt for men, whose strength and resolution become as water at the rise of a woman’s breast, and whose knowledge becomes impotent before surrendering thighs.
Temujin, who all his life was abnormally susceptible to women, looked at her restlessly, and turned aside his eyes. He distrusted his susceptibility. Yet he had to acknowledge that she was a wise and astute woman. He had already decided upon the death of Bektor. When Bortei hinted its necessity, she gave him the final thrust towards its accomplishment. Nevertheless, he would tell her nothing. To the end of his life, he never told her everything. There was only one, to whom he told all.
There was, in Jamuga, something of which Temujin was secretly afraid or, better, something which he feared and was abashed before. He, himself, was not above unscrupulous and devious things, for first of all he believed that nothing mattered but the end, and that a thing was good if it survived and was successful, however it was attained. But in Jamuga he knew there was not this exigency, not this cold ruthlessness of spirit. Kurelen might disapprove a given action and raise his right eyebrow quizzically. But if it were finally successful, he would laugh, as at some ironic jest. Chepe Noyon, who loved adventure for its own sake, would be amused, too, provided the thing had been accomplished with cleverness and color. Subodai, the stainless, saw no evil in any man. Kasar adored Temujin under any circumstances, found nothing dark in him. But Jamuga would acknowledge no good in a result if the means used to attain it were evil or treacherous or ignoble. It was this somber rigidity with which Jamuga abashed Temujin, this narrow clarity of eye, this simple and lofty certainty of right and wrong. And sometimes when Jamuga gazed sternly at Temujin with his light and inexorable eyes, accusing and faintly disdainful, Temujin felt both anger and shame.
Yet, he was not able to keep matters that concerned him deeply from Jamuga. However he vowed to accomplish what he had in mind in secret from Jamuga, until it was an unchangeable fact and not to be lamented over incontinently, he always discovered himself hinting to Jamuga, as though to ascertain beforehand the results of his acts to his anda.
Now he knew that he must kill Bektor. There must be no subtle dilly-dallying, such as Kurelen suggested, with his squeamishness. It must be a clean and ruthless kill, cleansed of enmity, dictated by necessity. So Temujin told himself. Yet, when he faced Jamuga, wishing to tell him, he would fall silent, his face the very color of rage. Each day he said to himself: Today, I shall tell Jamuga that I must kill Bektor. And each day, looking into Jamuga’s reserved remote eyes, which waited, his lips would become cold and voiceless. So, as usual, he approached the subject in a circumambient manner.
And Jamuga, guessing that Temujin had something of the most immense gravity to tell him, was afraid. But this time, he knew that Temujin would not accomplish the thing ruthlessly, telling him later, as he sometimes did. It was too important. In that he felt both comfort and fear. But he was too sensitive to precipitate the telling. He had the feeling that the longer the matter was delayed, the longer would be his own peace of mind.
Then, on a certain day when Temujin casually suggested they ride off alone together, Jamuga thought: He will tell me today. He did not know whether to be relieved or more alarmed.
They rode into the fiery red hills. They had moved away from the blue mountains deeper into the territory of Toghrul Khan, where rich but narrow green pastures could be found. Here, at least, they would not be unduly harassed.
Stopping at last near a huge volcanic boulder which offered them some shade from the monstrous heat, Temujin smiled at his anda with that simple artlessness which never failed to arouse apprehension in Jamuga. They dismounted, sat down in the sharp black shade thrown onto the fierce whiteness of the desert. Temujin urged rice wine on his friend. He was talkative today, and laughed more than customary. His laughter had a harsh and boisterous sound, as though he were uneasy beneath it. Jamuga made himself smile. Temujin had little wit, but that little was acrid and cruel. A fever seemed to burn in him. His inner turmoil betrayed itself in the bitter green sparkle of his eyes, in the very hot color of his broad-cheeked face, in the flash and glitter of his large white teeth. In the center of his large and barbarian ferocity the uneasiness glowed like a coal. It was nothing so complicated and effete as the conscience of the townsman, but simply an angry and irritated necessity for the approval of his anda.
He said at length, in a voice too careless: “Within a few days I must visit Toghrul Khan, with my suggestions and my demands. Thou shalt go with me, and Chepe Noyon and Subodai and Kasar, so that he will see I have noble paladins. There is but one thing: who shall keep order and unity among my people while I am gone? Thou knowest they are as nervous as a mountain antelope, and might scatter. This is a grave thing to consider.”
For a moment Jamuga was relieved. The matter, then, was not so grave—
He said: “Surely Kurelen, and thy mother, have experience and wisdom. And thy wife is clever and resolute. Then, there is the Shaman, who knowest his duty, or, at least, his security.”
Temujin’s face darkened, and his eyes became slits of blazing emerald. He gnawed his lip. He looked away, and said quietly: “The Shaman! That is my difficulty. I do not trust him. Who can trust a priest? When I am gone, he will plot against me, out of his hatred and ambition. I shall not be there to impress upon him mine invincibility. Priests have short memories, when their own gain is concerned.”
Jamuga said thoughtfully: “Kurelen is a match for him.” A faint trembling went along his nerves, and he felt chilled, as though with presentiment. “Or take him with us.”
Temujin suddenly got up, as though propelled by some inner force. He leaned his hand against the huge black boulder, which stood jagged and enormous against the hot blue sky. His back was turned to Jamuga, and his voice came muffled.
“Without the priest to control them, as well as Kurelen and my mother, the people cannot be trusted.” He paused. “Thou knowest Kokchu’s fondness for Bektor—”
Terror, vivid and all-seeing, clutched Jamuga. He got to his feet. He stood beside Temujin. He said, in a loud sharp voice:
“Take Bektor with us! Oh, I know thou dost hate him, but he is a harmless youth, and doth desire only loyalty to thee, if thou wouldst only see it! Thou wouldst say he hateth thee, but only because of thy hatred. Let him prove his loyalty to thee—give him a sign of brotherly reconciliation—”
Temujin broke into a loud and infuriated laugh. “Dost thou not know that there are enmities that are part of the blood and the sinew, and can never be reconciled? When I look upon Bektor, I see my natural enemy, who must be destroyed. Even Kurelen doth see that.”
In Jamuga’s throat was a lump that was like a piece of cutting rock. He swallowed. He made his voice light as he said, through lips chilled as ice:
“Kurelen is not all-wise, though thou hast always thought it. Moreover, he doth talk loosely, not knowing that a potent man never talketh except as a preliminary to action.” He smiled acidly. “That is why I, myself, am not potent. Like Kurelen, I speak as an antidote to exertion. If—any harm—came to Bektor, Kurelen would be the first to be disgusted.”
Temujin did not speak. Jamuga saw only that violent profile, as remorseless and savage as the outlines of the volcanic boulder against which he leaned.
Jamuga raised his voice. “There are no enmities that cannot be reconciled, no jealousies which cannot be satisfied, no foe who cannot be made a friend.”
Temujin turned to him with fury, and Jamuga saw that the fury was partly against himself. “I have no time!” he cried. “I cannot dally! I must do what I must do!”
Jamuga asked quietly, holding down his trembling: “And what is that?”
But Temujin did not answer him immediately. His breath was short and tumultuous. Then, in a voice strangely composed and low, he said: “Bektor must be removed.”
Jamuga kept down any agitation in his tone, when he said: “But how?” He remembered the poison of Bortei, and closed his eyes on a sickened spasm. But when Temujin did not reply, he opened his eyes again. A mask of stone had fallen over the face of his anda, and behind it, unseen but terrible, his spirit looked out.
Jamuga forced his stiff lips into an amused smile. “Thou wouldst not kill him, Temujin?” And when Temujin still did not speak, Jamuga’s voice came out in a thin cry: “Thou wouldst not murder thy brother?”
He fell back, for the spirit of Temujin had come from behind his mask, and it was awful to the eyes of Jamuga. For a long moment the two young men gazed at each other. Jamuga was fascinated by what he saw as he would be fascinated by some overwhelming horror, which paralyzed him.
Then in a soft voice, and smiling evilly, Temujin said: “Art thou not mine anda?”
And again the two young men looked at each other. Jamuga’s face was the color of stone which had been blasted by lightning. His heart was beating with a strange disorder, which was excruciatingly painful.
He whispered: “I am thine anda. Who can take that away? Even thee?”
Temujin still smiled. And then, without another word, he turned away and deliberately mounted his horse. He rode off as though he were alone, and had always been alone, without a backward glance.
Jamuga watched him go. He was so faint and weak that he had to lean against the boulder for support. He closed his eyes. He heard Temujin’s going, until at last there was only silence.
Temujin rode back to the ordu, without haste, but only with an inexorable and unhurried purpose. He sought out Kasar, who, because of his skill, was known as the Bowman. He said to him, looking into his eyes:
“Where is Bektor?”
Kasar was a simple youth, but when he saw Temujin’s face, he knew his purpose. His own face paled a little, but its simple lines did not alter. He answered: “Bektor is out with the horses, to the east. Belgutei is with him.”
Temujin said: “Come with me!”
First he went into his yurt, and slung his bow and arrow case over his shoulders. When he came out, Kasar was already armed. They mounted their horses and rode away, still without hurry. Temujin rode ahead, and Kasar a little behind. Temujin rarely had much to say to his brother, and spoke little more to him than he spoke to his white stallion, in whom he felt the same simple devotion and unquestioning obedience.
The cream-colored clay of the desert, hard and dry, rang to their horses’ hoofs. Lizards scuttled across their path, like slim jewelled creatures. The red hills in the distance were a low broken ring. The sky grew hotter and bluer. There was no shade anywhere, except that like inky pools beside the scattered boulders, which stood ageless and immobile, over the desert floor. Once a desert bird rose with a shrill and dreadful cry from some tufts of dry grass, and floated over their heads, menacingly. The wind moved like an invisible flow of water over them, not dimming the eternal and blinding glare.
They descended a shallow terrace of stone and clay, and there below them lay the vivid and dazzling green of a narrow fertile valley, an oasis, in which were a clump of palms with thin leaves like scimitars. The small herd of horses grazed here, with bent absorbed heads, their manes fluttering in the wind. On a stone, under the palms, sat Belgutei and Bektor.
Belgutei saw Temujin and Kasar first, and raised a shout in greeting. He came out to meet them, waving his arm. The horses lifted their heads, and shrilled to the approaching beasts. But Bektor got up slowly and reluctantly, and emerged from the palms. Even at a distance, his figure was embued with dark bitterness and silence.
Belgutei reached Temujin’s horse, smiling. He began to speak, lifting his head. But when he saw Temujin’s face, his voice died in his throat. He lifted his hand as though to clutch Temujin’s bridle, and then it fell to his side, nerveless. His color became the yellowish tint of the desert. He did not move. A curious expression moved over his features, and his eyes glinted inscrutably. He was like a man confronted with a remorseless destiny.
Temujin passed him. Kasar paused for a moment, and took an arrow from his bowcase. Then, he, too, had passed Belgutei. Temujin held his sword in his hand. He rode up to Bektor, who waited, scowling. He looked down at Bektor, and their eyes fastened together.
Instantly, the hapless Bektor knew what had brought Temujin here. His face became the color of iron. His body bent backwards. But his lips grew hard and still, and his eyes were unflinching and quiet. Above the high collar of his coat a purple pulse sprang out.
Kasar came up to Temujin. The arrow was fitted to his bow. All at once, a frenzy seized him. He could not bear the look on Bektor’s face. It was a gesture of self-defense, almost as if he threw up his arm to hide the sight, that made him draw back the string of his bow and let fly an arrow at Bektor. One arrow was usually sufficient to kill, for he was exceedingly skillful, but at the last moment his hand shook and the arrow pierced Bektor in the belly.
The poor youth staggered backwards. His hands flew to the quivering shaft sunken deep in his entrails. Instantly, blood welled up through his fingers. He bent double. He sank to his knees. But he did not groan. Nor did his eyes shift from Temujin’s.
Temujin looked at Kasar with a terrible expression. “Thou fool, thou bungling fool,” he said quietly. He seized the bow from his brother’s nerveless hands, and with calm deliberation he fitted one of his own arrows to it. Then he paused. He looked down at the kneeling and bleeding form of his half-brother. Bektor was bent double. From between his clutching fingers the bright red blood dripped down to the thirsty earth.
“I would have spared thee this,” said Temujin.
For the last time, they stared at each other. An awful quietness held them. Belgutei stood at a distance, watching. Kasar’s head was bent. They might all have been statues of stone in the passionate and burning glare of the sunlight.
Bektor’s eyes were already glazing with death and agony. Bubbles of blood appeared at the corners of his white lips. Blood trickled from one nostril. His hands were wet and scarlet, about the shaft of the arrow. Yet, he could look at Temujin like this, steadfastly and silently.
Temujin drew back the string. The bow bent. Like a flash of light the arrow left the bow, and sank itself in Bektor’s heart. Without a sound, he fell forward on his face, rolled impotently to his side. Yet, to the very last, as his eyes rolled upward, transfixed in death, he looked at Temujin.
Temujin returned the bow to his brother. He wheeled his horse about. The animal’s nostrils flared at the smell of blood and death, and he trembled. Kasar followed. He had begun to retch. Temujin rode up to Belgutei, and stood, looking down at him. Belgutei returned his look, without fear, and even smiling faintly with his pale lips.
“Am I to die, also?” he asked at last, almost indifferently.
Temujin was silent for a long moment, then he said in a low voice:
“Follow me.”
He rode on. Kasar trailed him, slowly. Belgutei mounted a horse, called to the herd, which followed, making a wide and skittish circle about the dead Bektor.
Temujiri rode ahead, faster now, and yet, not as one who flees. To Kasar, watching him with dim eyes, he loomed like a figure from some other world, straight and baleful and gigantic, followed with a shadow of doom.