Because of his great pity, Subodai decided not to allow Jamuga to accompany him and his warriors to the camp of the Naiman. He knew the sight of what would take place would be too much for this wretched man.
So, he left Jamuga with a small number of warriors, to await his return.
Jamuga wept no more. He listened to Subodai’s last pitiful words, but gave no sign that he heard. He seemed already dead. A great dull calm was upon him. Subodai thought that his soul had died, and only the feeble flesh remained, in its last agonies of unconscious dissolution. His eyes were glazed; he breathed slowly and irregularly. He sat in the midst of the group of warriors, his gaze fixed on the ground, his hands hanging lifelessly on his knees.
Subodai gave orders that Jamuga was to have any comfort he desired. But he knew, as he rode heavy-hearted away, that Jamuga would eat no more, nor would he ever rest again.
The warriors left behind with him were disgruntled, and complained among themselves, casting resentful looks at Jamuga, who was the cause of their loss of anticipated sport. They feared that they would receive only the remains of the loot, and the ugliest of the women. But finally his aspect made them uneasy. It was like guarding a corpse, they muttered to each other. Some of them whispered that his spirit was gone, and perhaps a strange and malevolent spirit would take its place. So they looked at him with fear.
The day passed. The restless warriors hunted for near-by game. They offered Jamuga food and wine. But he looked at them unseeingly. Hour after hour wheeled by, and he sat, unmoving, his eyes glazed and fixed, his under lip fallen, his chest hardly moving. The warriors played games of chance about him, and laughed and sang hoarsely. But he did not hear them, and at last, they were silent with him, superstitiously afraid.
The night came. The warriors slept. One kept awake, to guard Jamuga. But still he did not move. Still he sat like a man who had died in a sitting posture. He did not lie down. He did not utter a single word, or even a sigh. When the dawn came, it threw its brilliant light on his cold and sunken face.
The warriors marvelled that he still lived. One or two, less ferocious than the others, were moved to an alien pity. Never had they seen such despair. They hoped he would begin to wail, or weep. Thus, they would have relief.
The whole day passed, and again the night, and still Jamuga waited, like an image. No one could guess if he were awake or sleeping or unconscious, or if he thought anything at all. When the dawn came again, those who had pitied him felt a thrill of disappointment that he was still alive.
Now they began to expect the return of their general and their brother warriors. One or two took places on a high piece of land, and gazed towards the east. In their excitement and speculation, they forgot Jamuga, and their fear and sullen pity. They complained again, because they had been left behind, and some of them mocked the others, prophesying that they would receive only the old hags and the leavings of the victorious warriors. They discussed the possibilities of the beauty of the Naiman women. They made coarse and obscene jokes. One man complained that his wives resembled donkeys; he had hoped that he might get a handsome girl or two from the Naiman.
“I am certain that thou wilt get another donkey,” mocked one of his companions.
To relieve their tedium, they wrestled and had bouts with their sabers. Now a note of real quarrelling was heard in their voices. Their restlessness grew. They lost their fear of Jamuga. Loudly, in his presence, they mocked him, prophesied his fate.
“If his wife is beautiful, she will sleep with our lord, and will forget this pallid shadow,” said one. “She will breed real sons, instead of goats.”
But still Jamuga heard nothing, and saw nothing. The bellowed laughter did not move him. Hourly, his features sank, and he took on more and more the aspect of a corpse.
And then, at sunset on the third day, a watcher shouted exultantly. The warriors were returning. The watcher reported that behind them trundled a vast number of yurts, and that there was a great number of horses and a large herd. His companions joined them. They shouted and stamped with glee.
They did not hear Jamuga’s faint thrilling cry. They did not see him rise, and his legs tottering, lean heavily against the side of the white cliff which had sheltered them from the incessant wind. His ghastly and haggard face was convulsed; his cracked lips worked. He gasped hoarsely; his emaciated fingers gripped the crumbling stone, and he swayed.
Subodai rode ahead of the immense congregation of victorious warriors, yurts, herds and horses. And as he rode, his head was dropped, and he seemed to move in a mournful bemusement. From the yurts behind him there came a constant howl of wailing and weeping.
He glanced up, as he approached the rise of ground, and he saw Jamuga. He bit his lip. He spurred his horse, then arriving at the rise, he sprang down to the ground, and ran forward. The warriors rushed forward, shouting, to join those who were returning. In the confusion, Subodai approached Jamuga, glanced swiftly and compassionately at him, and put his arm about his shoulders.
Jamuga drew a deep and shuddering breath. He clutched his friend desperately, and in a voice full of broken anguish, he cried: “My wife? My children?”
Subodai closed his eyes; he could not endure the sight of that face.
“Be comforted,” he said, gently. “They are not here.”
Jamuga collapsed against him; his body shook with his sobs. From his breast there came a long groan, as though his heart was breaking. Subodai tightened his arm about him, and his beautiful face became dark and grim, as though with some deep anger.
“Thou art ill,” he said, compassionately. “Come; thou must lie down in one of the yurts.”
Jamuga shook his head. His exhaustion increased, so that Subodai was compelled to support the whole weight of his body.
“Then, thou shalt ride beside me.”
His plan was that Jamuga should ride at the head of the caravan, in order that he would hear very little of the constant lamentation from the yurts. Jamuga understood him, and again he shook his head.
“I shall ride behind,” he murmured faintly. “I am guilty of this. I must fill mine ears with the cries of those I have so frightfully wronged.”
Subodai’s next fear was that Jamuga would die before he could be delivered to Temujin. He forced his own flask of wine against Jamuga’s lips. Jamuga automatically swallowed. But he looked beyond Subodai with his agonized eyes, and was aware of nothing but the yurts and the sorrowful wailing.
Half-dragging, half-carrying, the stricken man, Subodai led him to a horse, and helped him climb upon it. Jamuga sat there, bent forward, in a dream of numb anguish. Subodai sprang up on his stallion, and took the reins of Jamuga’s horse in his hand. His anxiety became acute. At all costs, he must arouse him.
“Thy people fought and died bravely,” he said. “So well did they fight that I lost a goodly number of my best men.”
Jamuga looked at him. “That is no joy to me,” he said faintly.
The huge caravan began to move.
Jamuga, huddled in his saddle, heard nothing, was aware of nothing, but the wailing of the women and children, trundling behind him in the yurts.
And Subodai, riding beside him, holding the reins of his horse, looked ahead, bitterly and somberly.
“I live only to obey. Only to obey,” he said to himself, over and over, in a hypnotic litany, as though he was trying to dim the sound of his clamorous thoughts.