“My people,” said Temujin, “have been beaten and scattered. They have been made afraid, and covered with shame and humiliation. They are poor and wretched. I am khan of a handful of frightened children and old women, and men whose bowels have turned to water with fear. But I shall avenge them! I shall lead them from the wilderness to wide pastures, and they shall cast their tents in peace beside the leaping waters.”
Thus did he speak to his people before leaving with Chepe Noyon, Jamuga Secben, Subodai and Kasar, for his visit to his father’s sworn brother, the powerful but crafty and cowardly Toghrul Khan, the Nestorian Christian, the Karait Turk.
He appointed his uncle, Kurelen, to take his place in his absence, and gave the care of the women and children to his mother, Houlun. At Kurelen’s right hand he artfully placed the Shaman, and on his left, his half-brother, Belgutei. His wife, he said, was a queen. Her commands must be obeyed.
He looked at his poverty-stricken and ragged people, a mere handful, as he said. He saw their poor yurts, their miserable herds of horses and cattle and goats and sheep and camels. For a moment he was full of dismay. But they guessed nothing of this from his stern and implacable face and his fiery eyes. For the sanguine light of dawn was pouring upon him all its splendor. His hand was resolute on his lance. He sat his horse like an emperor, with his paladins about him. Over the pommel of his saddle was his greatest treasure, a heavy robe of dark sable skins, the gift for Toghrul Khan.
He thought to himself: Out of these wretches, what can I make? Out of dismal poverty, how can I emerge, a mighty ruler? I was resolved to become an emperor: what is needful? Are mine arm, my courage, my hatred, my lust and my greed sufficient? Is their miserable heart strong enough to follow me? Can I make conquerors of hungry nomads, unlettered and afraid?
To Jamuga, he said, looking at his anda with eyes turned as innocently blue as a child’s: “My people must have room and pastures and hunting grounds and peace.” To Chepe Noyon, he said: “No man is alive who is not an adventurer. I shall give my people adventure.” To Kasar, he said: “My people love me. I love my people. They are simple men, and simple men are always wise and good. I seek only to serve my people.” To Subodai, he said: “I must make my people strong, for only the strong can survive. But I will make them generous, also, and excellent neighbors, full of virtue.” To Kurelen, he said: “We must survive.”
But to himself, he said: “I alone matter.”
He was all things to all men. He was the image every man saw in his own reflection, but glorified and invincible and mighty. He deceived even Jamuga, who was passionately willing to believe. But he deceived neither Kurelen nor Kokchu. Kurelen hoped for the best. Kokchu hoped only for reflected power.
He set out, grim and unshakable, followed by his paladins. Kurelen offered some of his treasures as gifts to Toghrul Khan, but Temujin said:
“No. A man who is too heavily laden with gifts inspires suspicion that he is not strong.”
He would not allow any one to guess how perturbed he was about the loyalty of his people. He knew they were aghast at the murder of Bektor, rude and simple though they were. Had he been challenged by Bektor, and they had been engaged in an open and honorable struggle, though ending in death, there would have been no horror, no odium. But his attack, accompanied by that of Kasar’s upon a defenseless youth who had been given no time to defend himself, but had been brutally murdered without challenge by his own brother, appalled the people.
But Temujin told himself that he had had no time. Besides, he had already a vague inkling that horror opens the way to power, and terror is its henchman. Had he openly challenged Bektor, that would have taken time; too, Temujin was none too certain that he would have won the combat, for he was not so strong as Bektor had been. Later, he was to attain a reputation for the most stupendous audacity. But, in truth, he was never audacious. Conquerors, he was to say, must appear bold. But their ruin began when they stupidly followed their own advice. Boldness impresses the masses; but it is enough that a ruler be gifted with histrionic talents and make dramatic gestures.
The mighty Toghrul Khan, of whom it was said that he possessed forty tents made of cloth-of-gold, occupied the river lands near the Great Wall of Cathay. The Karait occupied many walled cities of their own, the houses made of mud and clay, but powerful. Composed in great part of the Turkish race, they were excellent and prosperous traders, and their wealthier men lived in luxury in the cities. Toghrul Khan, now old, was a man of pleasant address, and smooth smiling face. His voice was gentle and ingratiating, and he was given to great piety. But his piety was flexible; when it pleased him, he loved Islam, and gave honor to Mohammed. Again, when it was necessary, he was full of Christian sweetness. His people had, in large part, been converted by Saints Andrew and Thomas to Christianity, and more and more, as he aged, and found it expedient, he leaned towards this religion. He was a great rascal, a liar, a hypocrite, full of craft and treachery and self-seeking, never quailing from murder, but able, at all times, to attach a Christian phrase to a monstrous deed.
But so engaging was his extraordinary charm of manner that he was able to secure the allegiance and sworn brotherhood of scores of poor and petty chieftains like Yesukai. He frequently broke his most solemn promises. But the simple and credulous chieftains never held it against him, for his excuses were so sorrowful, his explanations so valid, that they believed everything he said. They would look into his wide innocent eyes set in his old grave face, and listen to his soft voice, and be won again to an allegiance that gave him everything and frequently gave them nothing.
Once he cynically said to his son: “Be a man of great virtue and honor and courage; be a hero before whom all obstacles disappear. Be noble and just and brave. And all this will be as nothing to win the faith and love of others. But speak thou words of honey, argue with no man but agree with all; smile sweetly and tenderly. Be full of promises, which are not necessary to fulfill. Let thine eye dwell with affection on every man, even if thou hatest him. And I tell thee that the people, who have only the souls of dogs, will hang upon thy footsteps and die gladly for thee. A pliable tongue costs nothing, but it will bring treasures to its owner.”
His son asked him if great conquerors possessed pliable tongues and sweet smiles. And Toghrul Khan, pursing up his lips, tentatively shook his head. He said: “There is another way to win allegiance, the harsher way, and that is the way of terror. But that is too exhausting. I prefer the lesser but easier way, and am content with security. Men who take the way of terror come not more than once a century. They are the frightful gods who do not need sweetness.”
At this time he was dwelling temporarily on the banks of the Tula, near the tremendous blue pine forests. Nomad in his soul, as he was, he could not long endure the confines of his rich Karait cities, and though he was old, he still had an occasional longing for the spaces and the steppes and the deserts. But he always brought with him his most luxurious tents and his strongest men and fairest women, to make comfortable his stay under the wild stars of his birth.
He was already rife in the legends of the Europeans, who called him Prester John, and these Christians often visited him in his cities, and partook of his hospitality. At these times his chambers were hung with golden and silver crosses, and great Christian piety prevailed. He gave the visitors many gifts, and displayed his luxuries to them. They never guessed the contempt this artful and treacherous old man had for them, these barbarians from the lands to the west. Sometimes, if they came richly themselves, merchants hoping to broaden the caravan routes from the treasures of the east to the starkness of the west, a whispered word went from Prester John to his men, and this whisper went out far to the west of the Karait cities. And so it was that at these times the merchants never returned to their own lands, but left their skeletons to bleach in the deserts, and their treasures to find their way over devious routes to the coffers of Prester John.
Temujin knew Toghrul Khan only from the stories of his father. Yesukai, like all the little chieftains of the steppes, adored Toghrul Khan, spoke of him with passionate reverence and awe and love. But Temujin had already learned to distrust report. He went to his father’s sworn brother with an open eye and a sharp open mind. He listened to the stories of his paladins in silence. Jamuga was aroused to his rare pale enthusiasms. He remembered that Toghrul Khan had the reputation of being a just and kindly prince, devoted to his followers, and heedful of their well-being. Moreover, he was not lustful, it was said, but preferred peace and civilization, and had a reputation for learning. One of his wives was a Persian woman, the daughter of a great noble. She was well versed in music and literature and painting, and was the best beloved of all the women of her husband. It was said that he had learned much from her. Jamuga promised himself fine conversations and feasts of beauty and philosophy. How splendid it would be, to enter the presence of men of culture and civilization!
Chepe Noyon declared that he would smother in cities. But he was excited, in spite of himself. Kasar cared only that Temujin secure aid from Prester John. As for Subodai, he, as usual, said nothing, and no one knew what he thought.
Slowly, as they all rode briskly towards the Tula River, some prescience came mysteriously to Temujin, and though he had never seen Toghrul Khan he knew him. All through his terrible life he was to have these deep and uncanny premonitions, and sometimes he was to speak of them, thus giving rise to the legend among his people that he was in communication with the spirits. He had started out with the resolution to invoke the aid of the old man. Now, he revised his resolution. He would subtly force Toghrul Khan to renew the ancient pledge, himself.
In these last few weeks he had rid himself of superstition. But young as he was, he knew the value of superstition in controlling others. However, he was still too close to the earth from which he had sprung not to feel the influence of portents, despite his intelligence.
Three days and three nights had passed in the long journey. At dusk on the third day a most awful storm vented itself over the broken and chaotic desert. Temujin was not frightened, but the others, even the cold Jamuga, were appalled. They found a hollow place at the bottom of a red and crumbling rampart, and crouched in it, waiting and watching with eyes distended with fear.
A darkness, like that of a supernatural and premature night, fell over the earth, so that it seemed to be brimming with a dim and shadowy sea. But the limitless sky boiled and rolled and twisted with baleful green clouds, continually torn by scarlet flames, parting the heavens to emit deafening thunder, which shook the earth savagely. This lightning lit up the desert for miles, burning up the dark shadows, and revealing volcanic hill and skeletal rampart in stark and horrible clarity. Sometimes everything glowed with a rosy incandescence, so that the smallest stone was visible at a great distance, and the hills and ramparts seemed formed of petrified flame. It was a landscape of the moon, not of the earth, cratered and chaotic and convulsive, illuminated by the fire of an exploding sun.
There was no rain, only an awful wind, which seemed, in its strength, to be imminently about to shatter the rampart under which Temujin and his friends were crouching. At times they believed the earth must dissolve and go up in a pillar of fire under this supernatural onslaught. The gale was laden with dust and sand from far places, and small crystalline fragments, which tore their faces and their hands and choked their breath. Finally, unable to endure sight and sound and wind, they turned their faces away and faced the rock, closing their eyes.
But Temujin was not frightened. He gazed at everything, though he was blinded and deafened. The leaping conflagration of the skies fascinated, but did not appall him. He covered his mouth with a part of his cloak, and narrowed his eyes against the flailing wind. And then in his heart a twin fury rose to answer the fury of insensate heaven and earth. It was a fury of exultation, invincible and almost mad.
He said to himself: It is a portent. Like this am I, and like this shall I ever be!
When the storm had gone raging and blazing over the distant ramparts the others laughed weakly in their relief, congratulating themselves that they were still alive. They rose to comfort their shrilling and trembling horses, which they had tied together under the shelter of an overhanging ledge. But Temujin looked at his companions in silent contempt. They seemed strange and petty to him. As for himself, he had lost the last of his youth.
He was no longer apprehensive about his visit to Toghrul Khan. He faced the future with stupendous calm and fatefulness.
They arrived in a sweet and lucid dawn at the huge camp of the old man.
The camp, orderly and immense, composed of thousands of huge yurts, with here and there an immense tent of cloth-of-gold or cloth-of-silver, elaborately decorated and pennanted, was gathered in a low green valley beside the purple river Tula, whose waters were shot with restless quicksilver. Behind the camp the mountains rose, range above range, peering, shading from the most delicate crystalline blue to the most misty violet, and then to the deepest of shining amethyst with incandescent caps against the pellucid skies. Forests of blue pine wound solemnly over the mountains, filling the pure air with a strong and pungent scent. It was a lovely, silent and majestic spot, this in which Toghrul Khan held his temporary court far from his hot and crowded cities. The sweet morning wind was filled with the lowing of cattle, and the far calls of the shepherds, driving forth their flocks to pasture.
As Temujin rode towards the camp with his companions, a clear and ringing sound rent the dawn quiet—the warning notes of a horn. Instantly, a number of warriors appeared before the camp, astride the finest stallions. The horn had been a warning. To Temujin, riding quietly forward, it seemed like the horn announcing the advent of a conqueror. He did not slow down his pace. He approached resolutely, quickening his horse, riding ahead of his friends. A priest, clad in a brown wool robe, appeared among the warriors, advanced towards the visitors. When Temujin rode up, and then halted, the priest lifted his right hand and made the sign of the cross.
“Peace be with ye,” he said, and looked at them suspiciously.
The salutation was a strange one to Temujin, but he lifted his hand gravely in a dignified salute. “Peace be with thee,” he answered. “I wish to speak to my foster-father, Toghrul Khan. Tell him that Temujin, son of Yesukai, doth ask an audience of him.”
The priest and the approaching warriors stared uncertainly. They consulted among themselves. Then the warriors galloped up and surrounded Temujin and his companions, and the leader announced that they would be taken to Toghrul Khan at once. They were no longer suspicious, but disdainful, recognizing in Temujin another one of the petty and poverty-stricken nobles of the steppes and the desert.