men and horses conveyed to him a sense of ease and normality. They did not know what burdens he carried on their behalf, what worries and anxieties he bore for their sake. But when the time came, they would ride out of Urga in his train, like a host of riders out of hell, destroying all that lay in their path. He could already see the dust rising above their horses’ fetlocks and hear the sound of their galloping. He had come to long for that moment as a lover for his wedding-night. Mongolia was to be his bride: he would tear her to pieces in order to possess her.
He turned and went back into the vurf. Colonel Sepailov had just
finished his third glass of han chi
“Have some more, Colonel.”
Ungern poured another measure into the colonel’s empty glass and watched him throw back the powerful drink as if it were milk.
If the colonel drank much more of this stuff, he would cease to be of much use, and that would be a pity. Ungern could only really trust two of his staff now Sepailov was one and the other was Burdokovskii, whom the men had nicknamed the Teapot. They were his eyes and ears and when there was dirty work to do, his hands as well. There was often dirty work to be done. Sepailov would have to cut down.
“Start at the beginning again,” Ungern said, ‘and tell me the story just as you had it from Jahantsi.” He lit another cigarette, blowing smoke carelessly in Sepailov’s eyes.
The Khutukhtu Jahantsi was Chairman of the Mongolian Council of Ministers. A sinecure really, but Jahantsi was astute enough to make his position count for something even in these times. He had spoken to Sepailov that morning and asked him to pass on information to the Baron. It gave an impression of intermediacy, even though all concerned knew such things were mere formalities: the Baron was in control for the moment.
“Jahantsi says something is going on at Uliassutai. Two riders came yesterday using tiaras with your name. They were given horses at every staging-post.”
“Who gave authority for the tiaras to be written?”
“Kazantsev, or so they said.”
“Very well, Kazantsev. And?”
“There was a riot.”
“A riot? You’re sure? Not justv.. . a disturbance?”
Sepailov shook his head. His skull was curiously shaped, flattened on top, a little like a saddle: in a deformed world, he was a prince.
“People were killed, General. A group of about ninety Mongols attacked a detachment from the Uliassutai garrison. They had to be beaten back.”
“Were they carrying weapons?”
“No. No, that’s the curious thing. They were all unarmed. One of the riders .. .”
He hesitated.
Ungern sucked on his cigarette. Smoke hung around him like a noxious halo.
“Yes?” he prompted.
“Go on.”
“He ... he told Jahantsi they chose to be unarmed. They had access to arms but chose not to carry them. They believed they were immune to bullets. So they rushed a group of armed soldiers, waving talismans and chanting slogans of some sort.”
“Slogans? Bolshevik slogans?”
Sepailov shook his head.
“No, religious slogans. That sort of thing’s more in your line of country than mine, sir. But I expect they were the sort of chants I hear them mumbling when I go past the temples here. Mumbojumbo, sir.”
Ungern nodded, a little impatiently. He believed in the chanting.
It wasn’t mumbo-jumbo. Nervously, he drew on his cigarette. He was up to eighty a day now. What would happen when his supplies dried up?
“No doubt,” he said.
“You say some people were killed. Were any shots fired?”
“Yes, sir, a few. It seems young Schwitters was the officer in charge.
Do you remember him? He .. .”
“Yes, I remember. Get on with it!”
“Sorry, sir. As I was saying, Lieutenant Schwitters was commanding officer. It seems he panicked and ordered a volley over their heads. When that didn’t work, he had his men shoot into the crowd. They killed about twenty of them, no-one’s really sure how many. Then they charged in, using their rifle butts. That did the trick. They cleared off double quick. But .. .”
“Yes? Yes?”
“Jahantsi thinks .. . He thinks it’s just a start, sir.”
“A start? What makes him think that? Has he any reason to think that?”
“The rioters were shouting about some child, sir. Some sort of Buddha, Jahantsi said. I didn’t really understand what he was talking about it’s all gobbledegook to me, begging your pardon, sir. But it seems they expected this child to be some sort of leader.
So Jahantsi says, and he should know, I suppose.
“The child, well, he’s supposed to be some sort of Saviour they’ve been expecting. You know how it is. Jahantsi says there have been rumours about this child from other parts of the country. I asked him if...”
Sepailov’s voice trailed away into silence. Von Ungern Sternberg had grown rigid in his seat, his hands feverishly tight against the arms of his leather-upholstered chair. He wore a red Mongolian coat of silk above black Russian breeches and leather boots: a general learning to be a god. His face made Sepailov think of icons he had worshipped as a child. It was a thin, ascetic face, arid and Byzantine, waiting for ochre and crimson and gold leaf to transubstantiate it. All the fine, exhausted tensions of saintliness, yet without so much as a trace of anything holy. He had always been untidy, but recently Sepailov had noticed a greater disorder in him, less physical than mental. Ungern was breaking down. He was full of prophecies and dreams and undercurrents of a mad divinity. But basically, he was breaking down.
“Where does this child come from?” He snapped out the question angrily.
“Jahantsi thinks .. .”
“Yes?” Ungern stubbed out his cigarette, half-finished, and lit another.
“He thinks he may have come from Tibet. In fact, he’s almost certain. I think he knows more than he’s saying. Someone told him there’s a man with him, with the boy.”
“A man? A Tibetan?”
Sepailov shook his head.
“Jahantsi thinks he may be Mongolian or ...”
He hesitated.
“Yes?”
“Or Russian. A Buriat. So Jahantsi says.
“And there may be a second boy. A European child, so the rumours go.
There’s talk that he’s some sort of incarnation as well.”
“The first boy, the Tibetan did Jahantsi say who he thought he was? Who he claims to be?”
“Only some sort of Saviour, sir. A Buddha. You’d have to ask Jahantsi himself.”
Ungern Sternberg’s features were set hard. A long vein in his forehead throbbed, pulse by pulse. Sepailov could not look him in the eyes.
“What sort of Buddha? Didn’t Jahantsi say? Come on, man!
What did he say?”
“I ... I ...” Sepailov stammered. How many men he had killed with his bare hands, but Ungern could make him stammer like a schoolboy still.
“Well?”
“I can’t remember, sir. Something .. . something beginning with “M”, I think.”
“Maidari? Was that it? The Maidari Buddha? Come on!”
“Yes. Yes, I think that’s it, sir. I’m sure it is. But you’ll have to ask Jahantsi. He knows.”
“Very well. Tell Jahantsi I want to see him. Right away. Make sure he understands. I don’t care if he’s in
