Each morning Jamuga searched the pink horizon, and each evening he searched the hyacinth horizon, desperately hoping to see Temujin returning. His alarm and perturbation were increasing as the days passed. Each night he reassured himself that Temujin was sagacious; each morning his old patronizing underestimation of his anda returned, and he was positive that the end lay crouching somewhere behind those horizons he searched so desperately.
He was not too happy in his position, for he was no fool. He saw that his khanship was not only temporary, but negligible. The true rule of the tribe was in the hands of the silent and beautiful Subodai. It is true that Subodai consulted him with great respect, and at frequent intervals, but it was only lip service. He felt himself dragged helplessly along, as usual, on a current decided by another. To a man of his cool and hidden vanity, this was intolerable. The pale stern line between his brows deepened. He became petty in small matters, and irritable, in order to display to others that he was in truth the khan, and not Subodai. He was guilty of small tyrannies and caprices. But even this did not give him pleasure. He felt a hidden disdain beneath the respect accorded him, a sly amusement at his pallid arrogance. Had Temujin detected this against himself, he would have come savagely out in the open and fought it down into genuine respect and fear. But Jamuga was at once too proud, too timid, too egotistic, to force an open struggle in which he doubted that he would be victor.
He was too fastidious to be cruel; he did not possess any real warmth nor kindness, and because of this he could not win affection if not respect. He was either embarrassed, alarmed, uneasy or nervous among his fellows. Had he possessed potential ferocities and power, his aloofness would have inspired awe and even worship. But uncertain, cold, filled with shadowy arrogance, proud and vain, he lacked strength and exigency, and consequently was regarded with contempt. As the days passed, the stern but gentle Subodai found it all he could do, by prodigious will power and low warnings, to compel the people to heed Jamuga and at least allow him to believe he ruled them. The sensitive Jamuga soon detected it, and a thin venomous hatred rose in him against Subodai, who ruled wherever he desired without apparent effort. At night, he wept bitter tears and could not sleep.
Once he was guilty of a grave error. This error was the seed which was to bear terrible fruit for him, in the years to come.
He had told himself that during his khanship he would rectify many “injustices” among the people, in order to have an arguing-point against Temujin when he returned, and to demonstrate to his anda some of the errors of his rule.
The nokud each had absolute life-and-death control of those members of the tribe assigned under their jurisdiction. The nokud made all decisions, judged all quarrels, punished all offenders. If a man were condemned to die, no one could appeal the judgment of the nokud.
It happened that at one sunset Jamuga was walking gloomily through the tent city to take up his customary vantage point where he might watch the evening horizon for Temujin. It was far from his own yurt and household. This section was under the jurisdiction of a stern middle-aged man by the name of Agoti, whom Jamuga knew slightly and disliked for his inexorable stolidity. Too absorbed in his own dismal thoughts, he did not at first hear the wailing of women and children coming, muffled, from a certain large yurt. But at last he heard it. He was sensitive, rather than compassionate, and the noise made him wince. He went to investigate. He found, in the yurt, about twenty young women, two older women, and two crones, and at least twelve children. They were packed in the smoke-filled musky confines of the yurt, squatting on their haunches, their heads covered by their garments. All wept and moaned in unison, rocking back and forth.
Jamuga’s light low voice could not at first penetrate the wall of grief, but at last a boy noticed him and called his mother’s attention to the khan. At the sight of him she screamed aloud, flung herself upon her face before him, and grovelled at his feet, kissing them, drenching them in her tears, and crying for mercy. In a few moments all the other women had followed her example, and the evening was hideous with their cries and screams and imploring broken voices. A small crowd gathered outside, ejaculating and conjecturing.
Jamuga finally was able to gather that their lord, Chutagi, had been condemned to death. None of them appeared to know why. But he was to be strangled at midnight by orders of Agoti. Only Jamuga Sechen, the great khan, could save him. They knelt about him or lay prostrate, clutching his garments, weeping. The dim light fell on their haggard wet faces and disordered hair. One of the older women was the mother of Chutagi, and one his grandmother. All the others were his wives, daughters and sons.
Jamuga looked at them; his pale face changed, and he compressed his lips. He remembered Agoti with hatred and anger. Finally he was able to tear himself loose from the clinging women. He promised them that he would consult with Agoti and see what the crime of Chutagi had been, and what could be done.
He went back to his own yurt, burning with a strange and fiery emotion, his heart beating painfully. He did not know why he felt so. He knew that the laws of the tribe were immutable, and that Chutagi had apparently violated one of them, and gravely. He did not know why he wished to interfere. He did not try to analyze what he felt, nor what he might do. But he seemed to see the face of Temujin, and all his thin and acid gorge rose. He began to tremble violently. But still, there was no pity in him for the man who was to die, nor even for his women.
At the door of his own yurt, he paused. Then still obeying his strange impulse, he went to Temujin’s yurt. Standing on the platform, he commanded a servant to bring Agoti to him at once. Then he entered Temujin’s yurt and sat down on his smooth and empty couch. He looked about him, breathing very hard. The palms of his hands were wet. His flesh shook, and his mouth was dry. Now he began to understand some of his emotion. It was rage that had him, but an obscure if mortal rage that he had never felt before. Behind him hung the banner of the nine yak-tails, and beneath it one of Temujin’s drawn sabers. He picked up the saber and laid it across his knees. Then he waited, breathing thinly and with difficulty.
Many had seen him enter, and were outside, whispering excitedly together. Soon they were joined by others. Within a few minutes nearly five hundred men were gathered in the section surrounding Temujin’s yurt. Jamuga Sechen had entered the house of their lord and was sitting on his couch, holding Temujin’s sword!
When Agoti, summoned, approached the yurt, a huge throng was at his heels. Something portentous was afoot, every man knew. But Agoti walked stolidly, looking ahead with complete indifference and even contempt. Occasionally, he spat, glowered at the men, who shrank back and dropped their eyes.
When he reached Temujin’s yurt, he said in a loud voice: “So!” And smiled with dark grimness. Then he entered the yurt, and bowed low and ironically before Jamuga Sechen. He waited in silence for Jamuga to speak.
Jamuga’s white face glistened with sweat; his light blue eyes were brilliant with emotion. But he spoke quietly:
“Agoti, I am informed that thou hast condemned one Chutagi to death. Why was I not informed of it?” Quiet as his voice was, it reached the nearest of the keen-eared Mongols, who quickly relayed it to their companions.
Agoti stared. Then his face became thick and congested. He could not keep the disdain and arrogance from his tones, when he answered:
“Lord, I am a nokud. I need to report to no one, not even the lord Temujin, about the disposition of the law among those under my command. Such hath he decreed.”
The strange choking emotion that was afflicting Jamuga rose to a mad point. Everything turned black before him for a moment. Hatred seized him by the throat, but like his rage it was an obscure hatred.
When he spoke, his voice was faint and choked:
“Thou hast forgotten that I am khan, until our lord doth return. I tell thee now, and shall tell the others, that I am to be the final voice until that time. If thou dost make such momentous decisions in the future without my permission, thou shalt suffer the same fate.”
The whispering throngs outside were struck with dumb amazement. As for Agoti, he stared at Jamuga as a man might stare at a madman. But he was not unintelligent. He recovered quickly. He said in a voice of calm dignity:
“Am I to understand that thou, Jamuga Sechen, art abrogating the laws laid down for us by the great lord, Temujin?”
A moment’s reflection might have saved Jamuga from committing his greatest folly. But he did not reflect. His heart was beating with a sensation like mortal anguish. For the first time in his life, he desired to kill. His fingers gripped the hilt of the saber until they turned white. Even the stolid Agoti was startled by his face, and retreated a step, uneasily, after his bold words.
Then Jamuga said: “Thou art so to understand.”
This was repeated outside, and struck the listeners mute with horror and excitement and glee, for they all despised him.
Agoti smiled ironically, and to conceal that smile, he bowed again.
Jamuga went on, in his choked failing voice: “The law of yesterday is not of today, or tomorrow. What hath, this man done?”
Agoti spoke in a voice of mock respect: “Lord, he hath committed treason.”
“Treason!” A pale shadow, inscrutable and dim, passed over Jamuga’s face.
“Yes, lord. He was overheard to say many times these last days that our great khan hath deserted us incontinently for some trivial reason, delaying our departure to our winter pastures, leaving us open to attack in his folly.” Agoti spoke slowly, as though relishing each word. He fixed his bland eyes upon Jamuga’s. “He also said, as though this were not bad enough, that the people should elect a new khan, who will give them orders to take us away from this place of danger at once.”
Jamuga listened. He moistened his dry and withered lips. He did not look away from Agoti. His eyes were the fixed glazed eyes of a blind man. Then, very slowly, he dropped his head forward, and seemed to sink into profound thought.
When he spoke his voice was like that of a man who speaks in his sleep:
“Is it treason, then, to deny a free man bold and open expression of his opinions?” He looked up sharply, and again his face was brilliant. “Nay, it is not! This man is no slave; he hath not been purchased and chained. It is an evil thing if he cannot speak as his mind doth dictate. Free him at once.”
The sardonic and heavy-lipped Agoti turned the color of old wax. He drew a sharp loud breath, and held it. He regarded Jamuga incredulously. He was unable to speak, and sweat burst out over his skin as he made the attempt. Outside, the people suddenly murmured to themselves, and their voices rose like a wind.
Seeing Agoti standing before him, rooted, his nostrils distended, Jamuga became wildly enraged. His voice became high and hysterical like a woman’s when he exclaimed:
“Art thou an imbecile? Art thou deaf? Thou hast heard me! Release Chutagi immediately, or thou shalt suffer dire consequences!”
Agoti was no longer satirical nor ironic nor amused. He was shaken to the heart. He could not orient himself. Dumfounded, he could still not move. I have not heard aright, he seemed to be saying over and over, to himself, repudiating his own ears.
Jamuga glared about him. Drops of cold dew stood out all over his pale face. His eye fell on a yak whip close to his hand, and he seized it. He swung it in the air; he brought it full across Agoti’s face; it hissed like a snake in its passage, and when it had fallen, a scarlet welt rose where it had struck.
“Now, go!” said Jamuga, hoarsely, panting. And send Chutagi to me.”
Agoti had not winced nor fallen back when the whip had struck him. He had received it full, unflinching. He stood before Jamuga, and his stature seemed to increase. He was clothed in grave dignity, and looked at the other man with pride and courage.
“Thou art the khan,” he said, quietly. Then instantly he was no longer a nokud, but a man, and his eyes blazed murderously. He bent his head in salute, wheeled, and left the yurt.
Alone in the yurt, Jamuga’s panting breath filled the ominous silence. His darting eye fell on the whip in his hand. He uttered a faint exclamation, and flung it from him with loathing. But in an instant later, he drew his lips together, and clenched his narrow hands. His breath grew more quiet; the violet pulse in his temples abated. He heard nothing from the people outside, and assumed they had gone. He did not know that they were completely shocked and stunned at what they had heard.
The flap of the yurt opened, and Agoti came in, accompanied by Chutagi. Chutagi moved like a man in a fantastic dream. He looked at Jamuga as one hypnotized. He kept blinking his eyes and wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue. He was a tall man, bronzed and lean, with strong squat legs; his height was in his torso. His expression was bold and somewhat insolent, his eyes protruding with a nellicose look. Jamuga studied him in silence. Here was a man of courage and strength, who spoke his mind in the face of death, and could not be awed even by such a one as Temujin, before whom the people trembled.
Here is one, at least, who doth not adore Temujin, thought Jamuga, and even in his disordered state he was conscious of a strange acrid thrill of satisfaction. He motioned to Agoti brusquely. “Go,” he said.
Agoti hesitated. The whip had torn across his lower lip, which was swollen and bleeding, and his chin, which was broken and discolored. Then he saluted, and withdrew.
Jamuga and Chutagi regarded each other in silence. Chutagi was not afraid. He held his shoulders arrogantly. Then Jamuga was conscious of disappointment. Here was no intelligent rebel, speaking as he wished with dignity and understanding. He was only an urchin in soul, perpetually discontented, a malcontent seeking only to stir up trouble. Jamuga saw this, however, only dimly; his disappointment rose from the fact that Chutagi wore no look of gratitude and joy, respect and reverence. He regarded Jamuga with the boldness of complete impudence, and, seeing this lack of veneration, Jamuga’s anger obscurely rose again. He had expected Chutagi to kneel before him, acknowledging both his power and his mercy.
Jamuga said curtly: “I have heard that thou hast expressed disrespect for our khan, Temujin. I deplore thy foolishness and lack of discretion. We are in no position, at this time, to have our people divided, no matter what thine opinion. Nevertheless, thou hast spoken boldly, like a free man. Bold speech is never a reason for death. Go; thou art free, but mind thy silly tongue in the future.”
Chutagi stared. But his expression did not change. It merely grew a trifle bolder and more impudent. Then, incredible to Jamuga, this look was gone, and was replaced by one of uncertainty and bewilderment.
“I am free, my lord? Free to go, after my treason?”
Jamuga’s thin fury rose like the thrust of a blade once more.
“Thou fool! Hast thou heard nothing I have said?”
Chutagi was silent. He was no longer courageous and defiant. He seemed thoughtful; he brooded. Then his features wrinkled, and Jamuga, disbelieving, saw that he was about to burst into tears.
“But, lord, I urged the people to rebellion. I am guilty of treachery and disobedience. I must die. I have violated the first law of my people; I deserve punishment.”
It was Jamuga, now, who stared, as at a madman. He choked. He dared not speak for some time, lest he burst out into wild vituperation, and strike the other man down. His arms lifted, waved incoherently. Then he cried:
“Thou idiot! Get out of my sight!”
Complete bewilderment had Chutagi; he was entirely disorganized. He was like one who sees the ground open before him, who sees the aspect of the world change into something nightmarish and appalling, wherein he is a complete and terrified stranger, and all safe and established things have vanished. Then he stumbled backwards, blinking his eyes. He almost fell out of the yurt.
Jamuga groaned over and over: “Oh, these animals! These animals!”
He buried his face in his hands; he felt mortally sick. He retched, drily.
The listening people outside gazed at each other. Each man’s face was a replica of Chutagi’s, baffled, frightened, wrinkling at the contemplation of a world that was no longer firm and secure and orderly. Then one by one they drifted away, returned to their yurts. Soon the whole city of the tents was silent and breathless, as though it mourned. The campfires died down; the women gathered together and whispered. Many caught their children to them, as if to protect them.
Jamuga, recovering a little, said to himself: It is Temujin’s fault. He hath taken the manhood from his people, and hath made them fools and beasts.