‘They’re not complaining,’ he said. ‘They were just talking, that’s all.’
Kublai summoned patience. It was not as if he had anything to do until his spies reported.
‘What did they say, then?’ he asked.
Zhenjin grinned at him. ‘They said you will be an emperor when this is done.’
‘If I live, that is … true,’ Kublai replied. ‘I will be khan of the nation, but emperor of China.’
‘Does that mean I will be an emperor after you?’ the young man asked.
Kublai looked at him then, his mouth twitching to laugh.
‘Is that what you want? To rule the world?’
‘I think … I think I would like that, yes,’ Zhenjin said, with a thoughtful expression.
‘Then I will do my best to make it happen, my son. You are blood of my blood, bone of my bone. I will name a dynasty and you will carry the name.’
‘Is that why we are going to fight, then? To be emperors?’
Kublai chuckled. ‘There are worse things to fight for.’ He looked over his shoulder at the bondsmen who rested in the mountain crags, the vast majority of his men invisible in the valleys and rifts behind.
‘I think I would be a better khan than Arik-Boke, Zhenjin. That is a reason as well. But a father works for his sons and daughters. He spends his strength and his youth to raise them up, to give them everything he can. When you have children of your own, you will understand.’
Zhenjin considered the idea with great seriousness.
‘I will spare cities when I am emperor. I will be loved and not feared.’
Kublai nodded.
‘Or both, my son, if you are lucky.’
‘I would like to change the world, as you have done,’ Zhenjin said.
Kublai smiled, but there was an edge of sadness to it.
‘I used to discuss such things with my mother, Zhenjin. She was a woman of rare ability.’ His eyes became distant with memory for a moment. ‘You know, I said something like that to her once. She told me that
Zhenjin blinked at him, unable to understand his father’s strange mood.
‘If it doesn’t matter, then why are we going to fight your brother?’ he asked.
‘Perhaps I haven’t said it well. I mean it doesn’t matter if we change the world. The world moves on and new lives come and go. Genghis himself said he would be forgotten and, believe me, he left a long shadow. It does matter how we live, Zhenjin! It matters that we use what we are given, for just our brief time in the sun.’ He smiled to see his son struggling with the idea. ‘It’s all you can say, when the end comes: “I did not waste my time.” I think that matters. I think it may be all that matters.’
‘I understand,’ Zhenjin said.
Kublai reached out and rubbed his head roughly.
‘No you don’t. But you will perhaps, in a few years.’ He looked out over the crags to where his herdsmen were making their slow progress. ‘Enjoy the peaceful moments, Zhenjin. When the fighting starts, this will be a pleasant memory.’
‘Can you beat them?’ Zhenjin asked, looking into his father’s eyes.
Kublai realised his son was afraid and he made himself relax.
‘I think so, yes. Nothing is certain.’
‘They have more tumans than us,’ Zhenjin went on, prodding him for a reaction.
Kublai shrugged. ‘We are
His son grinned at his bravado and Kublai chuckled with him.
‘Practise your patterns now, Zhenjin. We won’t be going anywhere for a while.’
His son made a show of groaning, but under his father’s eye, he found a flat space in the rocks and began the flowing series of movements and stances he had learned from Kublai. Yao Shu had taught the sequences years before, each with its own name and history.
Kublai watched with a critical eye, remembering how Yao Shu had never been satisfied. There was no such thing as perfection in a pattern, but it was always the aim to make every kick and block and turn as close to it as possible.
‘Turn your head before you move,’ Kublai said. Zhenjin hesitated.
‘What?’ Zhenjin replied without moving his head.
‘You have to imagine opponents coming at you from more than one direction. It is not a dance, remember. The aim is to break a bone with
Kublai grunted approval as his son turned his head sharply, then swept an imaginary kick away from him in a great circular block. As Kublai looked on, his son plunged a knife-hand into an invisible throat, his fingers outstretched and rigid.
‘Hold there and consider your rear leg,’ Kublai called to him. He watched as Zhenjin adjusted his stance, dropping lower before moving on. Kublai looked fondly at his son. It would be a fine thing to give him an empire.
Arik-Boke could smell his own sweat as he rode, the bitter scent of a healthy animal. He had not allowed himself to grow weak in his time as khan. His squat body had never been graceful, but it was strong. He prided himself on being able to exhaust younger men in any contest. From a young age, he had learned a great truth, that endurance was as much will as anything physical. He grunted to himself as he rode, his breath snuffling from his ruined nose. He had the will, the ability to ignore pain and discomfort, to push himself beyond the limits of weaker men. The righteous anger he had felt on hearing of Kublai’s betrayal had not left him for a waking moment since that day. The aches and complaints of the flesh were nothing to him while his brother rode the plains in challenge.
His tumans took their mood from his, riding with grim determination as they quartered the land in search of any sign of the traitor. Arik-Boke hardly knew the men with him, but that was not important as long as they obeyed their khan. His senior officers were spread out over an immense line, each commanding their own force of forty thousand. Any two would surely equal whatever army Kublai could bring to the field, Arik-Boke was certain. When all five came together like fingers curling into a fist, he would crush his brother’s arrogance.
It gave Arik-Boke some pleasure to plan his vengeance as he rode. There had been too many men in the nation who thought they could rule. Even the sons of Genghis had warred amongst themselves. Guyuk Khan had been killed on a hunt, though Arik-Boke suspected Mongke had arranged it. Such things were already history, but he could make Kublai’s death a hot blade sealing a wound. He could make it a tale to spread fear wherever his enemies met and plotted. It would be right to make an example of Kublai. They would say the khan had torn his own brother down and they would feel fear. Arik-Boke nodded to himself, savouring the sensations. Kublai had a wife and children. They would follow his brother into death when the rebellion had been destroyed.
He sat straighter in the saddle when he saw his scouts racing in from the west. The tumans who rode with the khan were the central block of five, while his orlok Alandar commanded the right wing as they moved south. Arik-Boke felt heat rise in him as he began to breathe faster. Alandar knew the orders. He would not have sent the scouts in unless he had sighted the enemy at last.
The galloping men raced across the front rank of the tumans, cutting in at an angle to where Arik-Boke’s banners flew. Thousands watched them as they reached the khan and swung their mounts between the lines. His bondsmen used their horses to block the scouts from coming too close, a sign of the new fear that had come to the nation since the death of Mongke.
Arik-Boke didn’t need to wait for them to be searched and passed on through to him. The closest scout was just a couple of horses away and he shouted a question.
