of felt were layered and bound, the small door fitted and a cooking stove carried inside. In just a short time, it was one of thousands appearing on the land, waterproof and warm. Chabi and Zhenjin came trotting up on the same pony, the boy’s arms clasped around his mother. Kublai held his arms wide and Chabi guided the mount close enough for Zhenjin to leap at his father.
Kublai grunted and staggered backwards as he took the boy’s weight.
‘You are getting too big for this,’ he said, holding him for a beat before lowering his son to the ground. Zhenjin already showed signs of his father’s height and his eyes were the same light gold that marked him as the bloodline of Genghis. Zhenjin stretched up to stand as tall as he could, making his father laugh.
‘I have your bow, Zhenjin. Bring it out of the ger and I’ll help you practise.’
Zhenji gave a whoop and disappeared through the door. Kublai let the smile remain. He felt the responsibility of being a father acutely. In time, Zhenjin would be his own man. Yet at that moment he was still a child, long- legged and gangly, with two teeth growing through in the front. Kublai was glad he had brought his family on the campaign. Uriang-Khadai’s wife and children were safe in Karakorum, but Kublai had not wanted to leave Zhenjin to Mongke’s care for so many years. He would have come home to a stranger.
Kublai nodded to the warriors as they bowed and hurried off to complete their own dwellings before dark. As Chabi dismounted and kissed him on the neck, his personal servants went inside with the first armfuls of cooking implements and a large metal pot for tea. Zhenjin could be heard asking them where his quiver was. Kublai ignored the voices, choosing to spend the last moments of daylight staring at the city he must take. His first.
Chabi slipped her arm around his waist. ‘I am pregnant,’ she said.
Kublai turned and held her at arm’s length. His heart leapt and he embraced her. Zhenjin’s older brother had died in infancy and another had been stillborn. It broke his heart to see once more the mingled hope and fear in her eyes.
‘This one will be strong,’ he said. ‘It will be born on campaign! Another boy? I’ll get the shaman to cast the bones. If it is a boy, I have been thinking of names.’
‘Not yet,’ Chabi said, her eyes rimmed with tears. ‘Let it be born first and then we will name it. I do not want to bury another child.’
‘You won’t, woman. That was in Karakorum, where the father was a mere scholar. Now the father is a fearsome general, commanding fire and iron. I will always remember you told me before my first city. I could name him Ta-li, though it sounds like a girl’s …’
Chabi put a hand over his mouth.
‘Hush, husband. No names. Just pray that it lives and I will talk names with you as long as you want.’
He embraced her again and they stood together with the camp all around them. Chabi sensed Kublai’s thoughts settle on the city he must take for the khan.
‘You will do well,’ she murmured, resting her head on his shoulder.
Kublai nodded, but did not reply. He wondered if Genghis had ever felt the same sense of trepidation. Ta-li’s walls looked solid, impregnable.
They were entering the ger when Yao Shu approached. The old man raised a hand in greeting and Kublai copied the gesture. He had known Yao Shu for almost all his life and the monk was always a welcome presence.
‘Will you want me to read to you tonight, my lord?’ he asked.
‘Not tonight … unless of course you have found something worth hearing.’ Kublai could not resist checking. Yao Shu had a talent for unearthing interesting texts, covering all subjects from animal husbandry to soap- making.
The old man shrugged.
‘I have some minor writings on the running of servants in a noble house. They can wait for tomorrow, if you are tired. I … had hoped to talk to you about other matters, my lord.’
Kublai had ridden all day. Though Chabi’s news had lit his blood, the excitement was already fading. He was dropping with weariness, but Yao Shu was not one to bother him with unnecessary details.
‘Come in and eat with us then. I grant you guest rights, old friend.’
They ducked low to pass through the doorway and Kublai took a seat on a bed placed by the curving wall, his armour creaking. He could smell mutton and spices being seared on a wide pan and his mouth watered at the prospect. He kept silent until Chabi had handed over shallow bowls of salt tea. Zhenjin had found his bow and quiver and was waiting with them laid across his knee, fidgeting with impatience. Kublai ignored the stare as he sipped, feeling the hot liquid refresh him.
Yao Shu accepted his own bowl. He was uncomfortable speaking before Kublai’s wife and son. Yet he had to know. At Yao Shu’s age, Kublai was his last student. There would be no others.
‘Why did you spare those men?’ he asked at last.
Kublai lowered his cup, looking strangely at him. Chabi looked up from tending the food and Zhenjin stopped fidgeting, the bow forgotten.
‘An odd question from a Buddhist. You think I should have killed them? Uriang-Khadai certainly did.’
‘Genghis would have argued their deaths would act as a warning to anyone else who might stand against you. He was a man who understood the power of fear.’
Kublai chuckled, but it was a mirthless sound.
‘You forget that Mongke and I travelled with him when we were barely old enough to stay on a horse. I saw the white tent raised before cities.’ He grimaced, glancing at Zhenjin. ‘I saw the red and the black tents and what followed after.’
‘But you spared an army, when they might take arms again.’
Kublai shrugged, but the old man’s gaze did not waver. Under the silent pressure, he spoke again.
‘I am not my grandfather, old man. I do not want to have to fight for each step across this land. The Chin had little loyalty for their leaders. I hope to find the same thing here.’ He paused, unwilling to reveal too much of his hopes. When Yao Shu did not speak, he went on, his voice low.
‘When they face my tumans, they will know surrender is not the end for them. That will help me to win. If they throw down their weapons, I will set them free. In time, they will come to know my word can be trusted.’
‘And the cities?’ Yao Shu said suddenly. ‘The people there are hostages to their leaders. They cannot surrender to you, even if they wanted to.’
‘Then they will be destroyed,’ Kublai replied calmly. ‘I can only do so much.’
‘You would kill thousands for the idiocy of just a few men,’ Yao Shu said. There was sadness in his voice and Kublai stared at him.
‘What choice do I have? They close their gates against me and my brother watches.’
Yao Shu leaned forward, his eyes gleaming.
‘Then show Mongke there is another way. Send envoys into Ta-li. Promise to spare the people. Your concern is with the Sung armies, not merchants and farmers.’
Kublai chuckled. ‘Merchants and farmers will never trust a grandson of Genghis. I carry his shadow over me, Yao Shu. Would you open your gates to a Mongol army? I don’t think I would.’
‘Perhaps they will not. But the
Kublai sipped his tea, thinking. The idea appealed to some part of him. Part of him yearned to impress Mongke. Would he be comfortable with the sort of slaughter Mongke expected? He shuddered slightly. He would not. He realised the idea of it had been lying across his shoulders, weighing him down like the armour he was forced to wear. Just the chance of another way was like a light in a dark room. He drained his cup and set it aside.
‘What happened to this Cao Bin in the end?’
Yao Shu shrugged. ‘I believe he was betrayed, poisoned by his own men, but that does not lessen what he did. You are not your grandfather, Kublai. Genghis cared nothing for the Chin culture, while you can see its value.’
Kublai thought of the torture devices he had found in abandoned military posts, of the bloodstained streets and the rotting bodies of criminals. He thought of the mass suicide on the walls of Yenking, as sixty thousand girls
