your Chin documents to tell me that.’
It was a sore point between them and Mongke could not resist the barbs. While he had fought alongside Tsubodai, Batu, Guyuk and the rest, Kublai had been learning diplomacy and languages in the city. They were very different men and Mongke scorned the skills of his brother.
‘And was his father also the first-born, that important position?’ Kublai responded. ‘No, Mongke, he was third in line. You will give an oath for something the rest of us do not even recognise. Why, because you are first-born in this family? Do you think that makes you a father to the rest of us?’
Mongke flushed. ‘If I must be, yes. You were not there when our father gave his life.’
They were facing each other by then, both growing in anger.
‘And did our father tell you to lead our little family, Mongke? Did he say to you: “Take your brothers in hand, my son”? You have not mentioned this before.’
‘He gave his other wives to me,’ Mongke replied stiffly. ‘I think it is clear …’
‘It is
Mongke might have struck him then. His hand twitched to the sword at his waist and Kublai tensed, his eyes bright with challenge. They had fought a thousand times as boys, but the years had changed both of them. If it came to blows yet again, there was a chance it would mean more than bruises.
‘Stop it, now,’ Sorhatani said. ‘Would you brawl in front of the eyes of the nation? You would shame your father, your name? Stand back! Both of you.’
There was a moment of stillness, then Mongke leapt in, raising his right arm to knock Kublai down. Kublai measured his distance and kicked his brother in the groin as hard as he could. There was no armour there and Mongke collapsed without a sound, hitting the ground hard. It had been a solid hit and silence fell around them. As Sorhatani turned to him in fury, Kublai’s eyes widened. Mongke grunted and began to rise. The pain must have been extraordinary, but his brother’s rage was roaring through him. His legs twitched in agony as he lurched to his feet. Kublai swallowed nervously as Mongke staggered a step towards him, his hand dropping to his sword hilt.
Sorhatani stepped between them, placing her bare hands on Mongke’s armoured chest. For an instant, he almost shoved her aside. His large left hand rose to her collar and gathered the cloth, but he could not fling her away from him even in his pain. Panting, Mongke glared over her head at Kublai, his eyes bloodshot and watering.
‘I said stop,’ Sorhatani said softly. ‘Will you knock me down to get at your brother? Do you not listen to your mother any longer?’
Mongke’s eyes began to clear and he looked down at her and then back at Kublai, who stood ready to be attacked. Mongke’s mouth curled in disdain as he recognised the Chin fighting stance taught to the boys by the khan’s old chancellor. His hand fell from her collar as Sorhatani put her hand to his cheek, demanding his attention.
‘You will
Mongke’s hard gaze slid over to his brothers, standing with their mouths open. He grunted again and stood back, mastering himself.
‘Guyuk will be khan,’ Mongke said. His voice was hoarse, but it carried. ‘His father ruled well and his mother has kept the nation together. No one else can say the same. You are the fool, Kublai, at least if you think someone else should rule.’
Kublai chose not to reply. His brother was like a mad bull in his strength. He did not want to set him off again. Instead, he shrugged and walked away. As soon as he had gone, Mongke slumped, almost falling. He tried to stand straight, but the pain spread in waves from his groin into his stomach, making him want to vomit. Only the presence of his mother stopped him cupping himself like a child.
‘Sometimes I despair,’ Sorhatani said sadly. ‘Do you think I will live for ever? There will be a time when your brothers are all you have left, Mongke. They will be the only men you can trust without reservation.’
‘He acts and dresses like a Chin whore,’ Mongke spat. ‘How can I trust a man like that?’
‘Kublai is your brother, your own blood. Your father is in him, Mongke, just as he is in you.’
‘He goads me whenever he can. I am not a fool, mother, just because I do not know the twenty-seven steps of his pointless Chin rituals.’
‘Of course you’re not a fool! You know each other well enough to hurt deeply when you are angry, that is all. You and he will eat together tonight and share a cup of airag. For your mother, you will be friends again.’
Mongke winced, but he did not reply, so she went on.
‘Because it hurts me to think of my sons so angry with each other. I will think I have failed as a mother. Make it up with him, Mongke, if you care about me at all.’
‘Of course I do,’ he replied. He knew very well that she was manipulating him, but he gave way even so. ‘All right, but you can tell him …’
‘No threats or bluster, Mongke. If you love me, you will make peace with him. In a few days or weeks, you will have the khan you want. Kublai can only bow to that necessity. Be dignified in your victory.’
Mongke’s expression eased as he thought it through. He could be magnanimous.
‘He blames me for Guyuk’s rise,’ he muttered.
‘And other men will honour you. When Guyuk is khan, no doubt he will reward you as the first to come to his banners. Think of that the next time you and Kublai bicker like a couple of boys.’
Mongke smiled, shuddering slightly as the pain in his groin settled to a sick ache.
‘All right, mother. You will have your way, as always.’
‘Good. Perhaps you should show me where my ger is. I find I am tired after all.’
The yam rider was heavy with dust. As he followed a servant through the corridors of the palace, he could feel the weight of it in every crack and seam of his clothes, even his skin. He stumbled slightly as they turned a corner, his strength vanishing in weariness. He had ridden hard all day and his lower back was aching. He wondered if he would be allowed to wash himself in one of the palace bathing rooms. For a few steps, he indulged himself in the fantasy of hot water and servant girls rubbing him dry, but it would remain a fantasy. The riders from the yam lines were given entry wherever they went. If they said they had a personal message for the khan himself, they would be let through to him even in the middle of a battle. Yet the rider was certain he would be washing in the river that evening, before settling down to a spartan camp and a small fire of his own making. Yam riders carried no tents or simple gers, or any weight that might slow them. He would lie on his back under the stars and pull his arms inside the wide sleeves of his deel robe. In twenty years or so, the older riders had told him his joints would be sore on wet days. Privately he thought it would not happen to him. He was young and supremely fit, his life stretching ahead of him. In the course of his travels, he had seen enough of trade among the people to know which items they craved. In just a few years, he thought he would have saved enough to buy a load on one of the trading caravans to Bukhara. There would be no sore joints for him. He would make his fortune. He shivered slightly as he walked, glancing up at the arching ceiling over his head. He did not dream of owning a palace. Perhaps a house in the city would be to his taste, with a wife to cook for him, a few children and a stable of good horses to train his sons for the yam. It was not a bad life.
The servant drew to a halt in front of shining copper doors. Two Day Guards from the old khan’s regiment stood there impassively in their armour of red and black, like coloured insects.
‘Yam message for the regent,’ the servant announced.
One of the Guards broke his perfect stillness, turning his head to stare at the dusty young rider, still reeking of horses and old sweat. They searched him roughly, removing his tinderbox and a small knife. When they tried to take the package of papers, he jerked it away with a muttered curse. The message within was not for their eyes.
‘I want the rest back when I come out,’ he said.
The Guard only looked at him, tucking the items away as the servant knocked on the door and opened it, letting a flood of light out into the gloomy corridor.
Inside, there were rooms within rooms. The yam rider had been to the palace before, but never so deep within it. He noted that each outer room had its attendants, one of whom rose at his entry and took him on to the next. It was not long before he saw a stout woman surrounded by advisers and scribes busy writing her words. She looked up as he entered. He bowed deeply, leaving his latest guide behind to approach. To his surprise, he saw two men in the group that he recognised, yam riders like himself. They met his eyes and nodded briefly to him.
