The Mongoliad: Book Two

chill of the night air. Furs and pillows were scattered near the brazier, transforming the floor into a soft terrain that extended almost to the silk-draped walls. The intent was to create a space not unlike his rooms at Karakorum, a refuge from the less hospitable reality of traveling, but this luxury was nothing more than a prison to Ogedei, a blatant reminder that he was isolated from what was happening.

“Do you not hear the sounds of battle?” he growled at the two men who stood near the laced flap of the ger. “I should be out there-fighting! I should be leading my men into battle.” He raised his hands at the men, clawing at the air. “My hands should be covered in the blood of my enemies.”

The slimmer of the two men stroked his long black mustache. “It would be fine sport, my Khan,” he offered. “But-”

Ogedei snarled and stepped closer to the man, the muscles in his neck straining. Daring him to continue.

The guard fell silent, and his hand dropped to his side. His mustache drooped.

The other guard, broad in the chest and arm, cleared his throat nervously. “They have come to kill you, my Khan, and for that, they are fools. If you were to step outside of this tent, would you not be giving these fools what they seek?”

Ogedei stormed over to stand too close to the second guard. He loomed over the shorter man, breathing heavily on the crest of his helmet like an old bull challenging a young rival. Daring the man to look up at him, to give him an excuse…

The guard stared at his boots.

“Pah.” Ogedei spat on the carpet, and he rudely shoved the man with his shoulder as he returned his attention to the first guard. “What is your name?” he demanded.

“Chaagan, my Khan,” the first guard said, dropping to his knee and bowing his head. The second man, recovering from the Khagan’s shove, did the same. “And I am Alagh,” he said.

“Selected by Munokhoi for your obstinacy and allegiance to his command, no doubt,” Ogedei continued. He started to pace around the tent, the hem of his cloak stirring up a tiny cloud of dust in his wake. The coals in the brazier seemed to wink at the three men.

“Yes, my Khan,” Chaagan replied.

Ogedei caught himself clenching and unclenching his hand. He wanted the security of his giant cup-wanted the strength that the wine would give him-and his hands could not hide his desire for the drink. I am weak. He squeezed his fist tightly, as if he could crush that thought into dust.

Was this not the purpose of his journey? To cast off the shackles of the wine and regain his dignity and honor. To have his subjects look upon him with faces filled with devotion and respect. Not the way they refused to look at him now, embarrassed by his drunkenness. By his weakness.

He kicked at a pillow, and his foot met little resistance against feather stuffing. The action was so unrewarding that he kicked another one, harder. The results were similar, and instead of kicking a third cushion, he scooped it up and tore at it with his hands. The silken fabric resisted his efforts, taunting him with its soft resilience, and growling deep in his throat, he pulled his dagger free of its sheath and stabbed the pillow instead. Cutting and tearing, he released a cloud of goose feathers, an explosion of white snow that filled the tent with yet more reminders of how soft he had become. Whirling, he stabbed and slashed at the floating feathers, striking at invisible enemies-laughing phantoms that darted and hid behind the screen of floating feathers.

Eventually-his arms aching, his chest heaving-he relented. Leaning over, one hand propped against his thigh, he glared at the insolent feather clinging to the shining blade of his dagger. All of his effort amounted to nothing: his blade was clean, and his enemies were still there, floating just out of reach.

Ogedei glanced at the two soldiers standing guard, examining their faces for any reaction. Chaagan and Alagh stared at the opposite wall, their expressions blank and stoic; judging by their unblinking fascination with the tent wall, they had seen nothing at all of what had transpired over the last few minutes.

“I am the Khagan,” Ogedei sighed, flicking the feather off the blade and sliding his dagger back into its sheath. He walked over and stood directly in front of Chaagan. “Would you die for me?” he asked.

“Yes, my Khan,” Chaagan answered.

“Would you fall on your sword right now if I asked you to?”

A muscle twitched in the guard’s jaw, and he hesitated briefly before barking out his answer. “Yes, my Khan.”

“Would it be a good death?” Ogedei asked.

Chaagan looked away and did not answer.

Ogedei stepped closer to the guard and put his hand on the man’s shoulder. He felt Chaagan twitch under his hand, and a flicker of fear twisted the guard’s lips. “I think,” Ogedei said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “that if I were to run out of this tent and engage the enemy-an enemy that wants nothing more than for me to present myself in that fashion-that I would be doing something very similar to falling on my own sword.” His grip tightened on Chaagan’s shoulder. “Do you agree?”

Chaagan nodded. “Yes, my Khan.

“That would not be a very good death.”

“No, my Khan.”

“I should let men like you-and Alagh, as well-fight for me, because that is your duty. That is all that you want to do for me-to fight in my name, to fight for the glory of the Empire.”

Chaagan stood up slightly under Ogedei’s hand. “Yes, my Khan.”

“And yet, you are here with me now. Inside this damned tent, watching your Khagan fight with a…pillow. There is little glory in that, is there?” Ogedei chuckled at Chaagan’s bleak expression. He released his grip and patted the man’s shoulder-the way a father absently reassures a confused child. “Let us watch the fight outside this tent,” he said, nodding toward the straps that held the tent flap closed. “I want to witness my fierce warriors in combat. I want to behold the glory of their actions.”

The wine would always fill him with bravado, but without the brittle bluster it provided, all that was left was a squirming nakedness, a raw awareness of the prisoner he had become. He had been a warrior of the steppes once, but now he was the Khagan, and that title was nothing more than a golden chain crushing the life out of him. He could not participate in the glory of the Mongol Empire; he could only bear witness to it.

29

Deus Iudex Iustus

“What are you doing up there?” the guard demanded, fumbling for his sword.

Ferenc hung halfway to the top of the old Roman wall, frozen with indecision, fingers of one hand clinging to the gap between two blocks of tufa, and the other scrabbling for purchase on a brick-and-mortar facing.

Left behind on the path below the wall, Ocyrhoe backed away from the guard, who was focusing his attention on the one most likely to escape-the youth clinging to the wall.

“Get down!” The guard raised his sword-with little effect, since Ferenc’s feet were at least two yards over his head.

Bits of grout and decaying brick sifted down from Ferenc’s fingers and broke away from his questing toes. Should he keep going? Was Ocyrhoe going to run?

Comically, the guard now began to jump, waving his blade in an attempt to close the distance. Ferenc arched his back and raised his feet. More grout broke free. Some of it sifted into the guard’s face, and he swore, backing off to rub his eyes.

Ferenc and Ocyrhoe hadn’t planned well, that was obvious-run ragged by their mission and the environment of fear that was sweeping Rome. If they were split up, where would they find one another again? Ferenc found it strange that he and this tiny girl had become so inseparable, as if they had been running together, struggling to