stop them only to order them back in.
They whirled their horses and began cantering up the rising ground. Hulegu grunted in relief, then his breath caught as he saw the enemy were still coming. Thousands more of them had appeared and he cursed the labyrinth of valleys all around that could hide so many from his scouts.
The Persian lines below ran forward, howling in glee as they appeared to chase the tuman from the field. Their momentum took them along a wing of his personal tuman as he had feared. Hulegu took a deep breath to shout new orders to the single minghaan of a thousand who had come with him.
‘Back in support!’ he bellowed. ‘To the Brass tuman line, in support!’ He repeated the order as he dug in his heels. There were too many of the enemy, but he was not ready to retreat, not from those. The battle could yet turn and they could break. He would wait for the moment, pray for it. The Brass tuman was under pressure at the front and side, close to being overwhelmed. For the first time that day, Hulegu felt a worm of doubt in his stomach. He had never lost a fixed battle against the wild tribesmen, though they challenged him each year with increasing numbers, crying ‘Baghdad’ and ‘Allahu Akbar’ as they came. He showed his teeth as he rode to support his tuman. His men would not break against dog-raping farmers. They could be defeated, but never made to run.
The thousand with him stretched out to a full gallop. Many of them had lost their lances and emptied their quivers in the fighting, but they drew swords and struck into the enemy, seeking to cut through the chaos, roaring their battle cries. Hulegu laid on around him with all his strength, smashing his sword down on helmets as shields were raised against him. From horseback, he could still see the fresh soldiers meet his tuman on the rising ground. The tuman had slid into a wide charging line with lowered lances, but even as Hulegu watched, it began to falter against the sheer numbers. Like a broken fishing net, the charging line was sundered in a dozen places. They could not hold and the screaming Persians were flowing around and through them, losing hundreds of men to reach the main battle.
Hulegu swore, turning his anger into a quick chopping blow that cracked the skull of a bearded man as he showed his red mouth in a wild yell. It was his task to keep a feel for the battle and never to lose himself in the pain and fury. The ranks on the hill were still coming and Hulegu felt a cold chill, despite the heat. The shahs had caught him neatly, making him commit his forces and then springing the ambush with everything they had.
Hulegu had cut himself a space and he was gathering the minghaan back to him for another charge at a weak point when he saw his scouts racing over the bloody grass. They were already pointing into a shadowed valley on his right hand and Hulegu groaned to himself. If there was another army there, he was done.
Even as he formed the thought, the first ranks came out of the shadowed hills, not far from the heels of the scouts they followed. Hulegu rubbed sweat from his eyes, gaping. What he saw was impossible, but he felt his heart lift even so. Solid ranks of Mongol warriors came surging out, lances standing upright like a forest of thorns. He knew them from their banners and he shook his head in a sort of wonder before turning back to see the enemy. Slowly, his lips pulled back to reveal his teeth. It was not a smile.
The tumans in the hills had been riding close, pressed in by the narrow valleys all around. As they hit the open space, they fanned out and Hulegu shouted in joy to see manoeuvres he knew as well as his own body. Two entire tumans jerked into a new path, heading for the force sliding over the hill-crest. Two more increased their speed on the flat ground and came at his position like a hammer swinging down on the Persian ranks.
Hulegu saw arrows soar out from them, bows thrumming their deep note over and over, shafts by the tens of thousand filling the air as the forces closed. The Persian ranks crumpled under the new assault, their battered shields saving only a few. Hulegu stood in his stirrups to see the lances come down. A rank five hundred wide struck his enemies and went over them, crushing and cutting. He bellowed in excitement and snapped new orders to his officers. He had the Persians on two sides, as neat a trap as if he had planned it. One last glance up the hill let him see the new tumans were butchering the Persian reserve, taking on their cavalry and sweeping across their face with black arrows, again and again.
The battle was over, but the slaughter had barely begun. Many of the Persians threw down their weapons and tried to run, or simply held bare hands up to the sky and prayed their last. They were cut down as the tumans rode around them, accepting no surrender and sending arrows in to pick them off at close range.
Hulegu’s tumans lifted their heads, putting aside the weariness they felt as their pride forced them to stand tall in the presence of their own people. They had been hard-pressed and they were merciless as the enemy fell back. The killing went on and on as the sun began to set and the enemy were herded into smaller groups. Wounded men stood among the dead and Hulegu used a broken lance as a club as he rode past one man, snapping his neck with the force of the blow and sending him tumbling.
The single minghaans rode the battlefield like stinging ants, lunging across to find new targets until the last of the enemy were running in terror, hoping only for darkness to hide them. The heat of the sun began to wane and Hulegu removed his helmet, rubbing his wet scalp. It had been a good day. A warm breeze picked up, carrying the smell of blood. Hulegu closed his eyes in relief, turning into it. He thanked the sky father for his deliverance and then on a whim thanked the Christian God as well. Kitbuqa would have enjoyed the scene around him and Hulegu was only sorry he had not lived to see it.
He opened his eyes as Mongol horns sounded victory across the open ground, a low drone that was quickly echoed by every tuman who heard. The sound raised gooseflesh on Hulegu’s arms. He whistled between his teeth to catch the attention of his officers and watched as his banners went up, bringing the senior men to him. The droning noise of victory went on and on, filling the valleys and echoing back from all directions. It was a good sound.
Hulegu’s tumans began to loot the dead, and in the distance more than one scuffle broke out as they disputed their rights over weapons and armour with the newcomers. Hulegu laughed at the sight of men rolling on the ground who had been fighting as brothers just moments before. His people were fierce, wolves all.
As his officers gathered, he saw a group of a few dozen riders detach from one of the tumans and come trotting over to him. Banners fluttered in the breeze as they came, taking their mounts carefully around the dead.
Uriang-Khadai had read the battle as he entered it. As he met Hulegu’s gaze, both men knew Hulegu owed him. Though Hulegu was a prince of the nation and a khan in his own right, he spoke first to honour the older man.
‘I was beginning to think I’d have to take another day to finish them, orlok,’ Hulegu said. ‘You are welcome here. I grant you guest rights and I hope you will eat with me this evening.’
‘I am pleased to be of service, my lord. I do not doubt you would have called the victory in the end, but if I saved you even half a day, that is good.’
Both men smiled and Hulegu wiped sweat from his face once again.
‘Where is my brother Kublai, orlok? Is he with you?’
‘Not today, my lord, though I am his man. I will be happy to explain as we eat.’
The sun had set by the time the tumans left the battlefield. Metal armour long heated in the sun tended to creak as it cooled and bodies twitched, sometimes hours after death. Experienced men could all tell tales of how they had seen dead warriors belch and even sit up in a spasm before they fell back. It was not a place to spend the night and Hulegu knew he would have to send men back to complete the looting. He led Uriang-Khadai and his warriors to a grassy plain a few miles to the west, almost at the edge of the hills. He had a basic camp there and before the moon rose to its highest point, there was simmering stew for them all, with bread hard enough to use as a spoon until it dissolved.
Hulegu was in ebullient mood as Uriang-Khadai’s senior men removed their armour and tended to their horses. His tunic was sweat-stained, but it had been a relief to get out of the armour and feel the night cool on his bare arms and face. He sat opposite Kublai’s orlok, burning with curiosity, but willing to let the man eat and drink before he demanded answers. Nothing tired a man more than fighting and the tumans never missed a chance to eat well after a battle, if they had the opportunity. They were professional men, unlike the dead Persians behind them.
When Uriang-Khadai was finished, he handed his bowl to a servant and wiped his fingers on his leggings, adding to an old patch of dark grease.
‘My lord, I am a blunt man. Let me speak bluntly,’ he said. Hulegu nodded at him. ‘Your brother Kublai asks that you step aside from the battles to come. He has declared himself khan and he will fight Lord Arik-Boke. All he asks is that you remain in your khanate and take no part.’
Hulegu’s eyes widened as the older man spoke. He shook his head in dull amazement.
