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CHAPTER 1
The sky's great cloth of grey felt stretched over the steppe, leaving not a stitch of blue. Crouched in the middle of the herd, I was stroking the teats of the black mare. The milk beat hard under my skin; throbbed under my fingers; ran in my veins. It quenched my thirst and, passing through my body, as hard and taut as a reed in spring, was released into the endless carpet of grass.
Suddenly the heavy, warm udder pulled away; the tilting flow was cut short, my pleasure with it. Mane knotted in the wind, the mare was staring at the bare crest of two hillocks. Her interest in this breast of reddish-brown earth was so keen that I could have lifted her with one finger without her turning a hair.
A few paces away my lead horse, a fine chestnut, stood quivering. Soon the whole herd was on the lookout. Near the camp the dogs had got to their feet and were barking questions to one another, their noses in the air. My first thought was enemy tribes. Several moons had passed since they had last appeared on our territory, but they remained a constant threat to my father and his herds.
The wind subsided and with it the intoxicating smells of the steppe fell away. Then I saw him on his horse. He was alone, motionless, and like the shadow of the eagle on the morning-born lamb; his tall, faraway silhouette against the sky dwarfed us. He was like the wind. How long had he been watching me?
He tore down the slope straight for me and pulled up a hair's breadth away, scattering the mares. My chestnut reared, only to move closer to him, snorting with pleasure.
The stranger's mount, a scowling-eyed gelding the colour of parched grass, tossed his head, the bit jingling in his open, foam-flecked mouth. Sweat poured from his breast to his fetlocks. His rider was tall and powerful, with a knife and scimitar in his belt and a quiver full of arrows. 'Have you seen four men driving eight horses?' he asked.
I had indeed seen them at dawn and could not help but notice their steeds' broken-down hocks. No man should drive his string so hard; only great danger or the pursuit of an enemy could explain it, I had thought, but then decided they must be thieves.
'Do the horses belong to you? I'll help you get them back. Without his horses a man is nothing!' I said.
He looked away from the fugitives' tracks. 'Tell me which way they were fleeing; that will suffice.'
I pointed to the hill shaped like a ram's profile, then offered him a horse so his own could rest, saying, 'Let me ride with you. I am Bo'urchu, the pathfinder.'
Momentarily surprised, he stared at me; his melancholy, wild eyes softened.
My chestnut was harnessed. From its saddle hung a bow and three arrows and a leather bottle of milk and in my breast pocket I had a good piece of dried cheese.
'Can you follow them true?'
'As surely as I can show you where the moon will rise.'
'Are you ready?'
'I am a Mongol!' I said.
'Well then, scout, let's go.'
With a flick of my wrist I caught the fresh horse he needed and we harnessed it. The next moment we were galloping towards the night; he was at my heels, determined that our ride across the grasslands should only leave a single set of tracks.
We rode until dawn and on into the following day. He was silent, but I felt him watching me, observing how I tested a pile of dung to gauge how much ground lay between us and our quarry. We rode with the wind in our faces and we heard them long before we saw them; isolated snatches of conversation, shouts or laughter coming to us in fits and starts, like bubbles of spittle ricocheting in the air.
At twilight we were on them. We hobbled our horses and checked the tethers that keep their heads to the ground to stop them neighing, then crawled up to the camp.
The thieves had dismounted in the bend of a river, a strip of level grass flattened by old flooding and dotted with stands of willow. Two of them were tethering their horses while the other pair collected argols for a fire. We hung back and, as we waited for night to fall, shared the piece of cheese and curdled milk I had brought in a leather bottle.
My companion's long, agile body emanated great assurance. Impassive, silent, a strange fire crackled in his eyes. I still didn't know his name and I jumped when he said it. 'Temüjin!' My surprise was twofold. Not only had he known what I was thinking, but when I heard the name, it felt as if a horse had kicked me.
Temüjin: the one who works iron. I knew only one blacksmith in all the land and that was the son of Yesügei, chief of the Borjigin, from the line of the former khans, descended from the great Kabul Khan himself.
'What did you say?'
'Didn't you want to know my name?'
'Yes ... but ... are you the eldest son of the valorous Yesügei?'
He nodded.
Immediately I knew who he was. How could I not? The herdsmen never tired of relating his exploits. On the death of his father, the most powerful of his father's allies, the Sovereign tribe, had spurned Temüjin, robbed him and driven him and his family from their land. They had survived the winters by digging in the earth's belly, eating roots, bulbs and such carrion as Temüjin could steal from those slower-witted than he. The Sovereigns' chief, Targutai, who hoped to press his claim of legitimacy to succeed as khan, grew furious and demanded that Temüjin's head be brought to him. But Yesügei's son foiled his every attempt. And these tales of prowess were told by men in the evenings in their tents, and soon songs composed in his honour rose up from the land of the blue mountains, travelled down the rivers and spread to the furthest steppe.
We had seen the same number of springs – sixteen – but, perhaps because of the perils he had faced, he seemed by far the older and wiser. He was like a rock fallen from the sky: a dense, vigorous mass, burning and fearless. His whole being quivered with an intense energy and even his slightest gesture had the suppleness and ease of a big cat: I had never felt such an impression of force and mastery. So when he stood up and asked me to wait behind, I protested hotly, 'All this time we have been riding, there hasn't been a shrub, not even the smallest stone to separate us. Look! Our hoofprints have left but one track.'
'True, but these men are Sovereigns,' he said, pointing. 'Be warned that if you become their enemy, they will plague you remorselessly like flies on old horses.'
'I have come here because they have robbed a brother and now could kill you. I will not hang back. Accept my friendship.'
He was adjusting his quiver; he stopped, gave me an appraising glance and then signalled me to follow. A vast swathe of blue sky had just rent the night.
The Sovereign, reluctant to be woken, mimed a show of irritation. Then he rubbed his eyes. Only when he opened them did I drive the stone from the riverbed down onto his forehead. His skull gave a cracking sound; blood spurted out of the bridge of his crushed nose and flooded his eye sockets. One of his companions gave the alert and immediately all three of them were on their feet. Crouching in the shadows, Temüjin cut down two with an arrow in the back, as the last one took to his heels. In a flash we closed in on him. He was within range of our scimitars, panting with exertion and whimpering with fear. He nearly went sprawling but righted himself, windmilling his arms wildly.
'Sovereign,' I shouted, 'I can smell the stench of your gut.'
He stumbled again but managed to brace himself and knock Temüjin off balance, who rolled over him. I had more luck. I grabbed his topknot, wrenched back his skull and slit his throat. Inflamed now, I cut off his head and laughed at the sight of his face in the first light. His bulging eyes wore a look of dumb amazement.
'Your liver reeks and your plaits are greasy,' I said, then hurled my trophy into the distance.
As the sun came up, we were heading back with the recovered horses at an unhurried pace, when my companion said to me, 'Half are yours. Choose the ones you like.'
'These are not spoils: you are their rightful owner.'
'Would I have got them back without your help?'
'I believe so. Besides, you should know that my father's name is Naqu the Rich and I am his only son. Keep your horses.'
He said nothing more until we reached my father's camp.
My father scolded me for disappearing without a word, then pressed me to his breast and thanked Temüjin for looking after his only child. The dogs came forward to greet me, but, catching the stranger's eye, they slunk back behind the tents and hung their heads, their tails between their legs, as if they had been punished. My father also seemed disconcerted by the unequivocal look in my companion's eye. Although he tried to hide it, I noticed his discomfiture and told him who it was.
'Valiant Yesügei's eldest son? Whose cunning has reduced Targutai's Sovereigns to butts of the steppe's ridicule?'
Temüjin nodded. A moment later he was taking his seat in the yurt on my father's right. A sheep was killed forthwith. Our guest was so distinguished that my reckless escapade was forgiven.
We shared the steaming offal, sticking our gleaming blades into the liver and the heart and biting into the stomach so that our platters ran with blood. Our arms were smeared with fat up to the elbow. We drank, draining barrels of airag and clear soup, and stuffed ourselves up to our ears.
When we had polished the bones clean with our teeth, my father said to our guest, 'Your horses look in need of feeding as well.'
'It's true, they are thin in the belly, but they are all the wealth I possess. And without the help of your son, I would never have seen them or their jutting ribs again. You can be proud of him, Naqu: he stood straight and true and in his eyes I saw the purity of his heart.'
'Enough of this praise, else Bo'urchu will see himself reflected in the sun's rays. Tell of your ride instead, since you seem to me like a pair of young wolves who have just made their first kill.'
'That's just what we were. Like two lone wolves, we joined together to defeat those who had robbed me.'
Temüjin described our adventure, to the great joy of my father. I had never seen him show so much interest in anyone, especially someone so young. He plied Temüjin with questions as the fire lit up our faces and above us, through the smoke-vent, the stars shone. It was one of those still nights when the family yurt seems alone on earth and every sound, the slightest glimmer of light, even the slowly unfurling moment itself, is to be savoured like the first milk of the year. And that evening Temüjin's confidences added greatly to our sense of privilege. He began to play out the thread of his story as follows.
'As you know, esteemed Naqu, my father Yesügei was of the princely clan of the Borjigin. A worthy grandson of the Great Kabul, Yesügei was an exceptional warrior who fought the Tatars without respite. The Borjigin tribe chose him as their leader like so many of the other Mongol clans who came to pitch their yurts in the shade of his banner. When the Sovereigns rallied to his cause, my father could marshal ten thousand men. His herds were fat, his women plump and smiling and his slaves numerous.
'He had, however, one failing: carelessness. He feared no one and would often venture alone beyond our lands. Seven springs ago, when I myself had seen nine, we set off together for Onggirad country, my mother's homeland, to find a wife for me.
'After three days' trek, we made a stop at the encampment of Dei the Wise, chief of the Onggirad. When he learnt the purpose of our journey, Dei exclaimed, "Mark this, Yesügei: a pure white gyrfalcon visited me in my sleep recently. As it flew, it held the sun and the moon in its talons. It alighted on my hand and there I was able to contemplate the two heavenly bodies. Can there be a better omen? You have carried off one of our girls in the past, so you know that they play more havoc with the hearts of men than fermented mare's milk." Here, the old chief was referring to my mother, whom Yesügei had kidnapped from a rival. "We reserve the most beautiful of them for the khans' descendants, the lords of the Mongol lands, and we put them to ride on a cart harnessed to a black camel. Yesügei, your son has fire in his eyes. Before you set off for other camps to find a daughter-in-law, let me show you my own daughter.'
'Then old Dei called, "Börte! Börte!" until a little girl lifted up the doorflap. She held herself straight, a belligerent expression on her face, her jaw clenched, her brows knitted. It was my wife.'
Temüjin broke off his account. He seemed troubled and there was a long silence until my father asked, 'She must be beautiful, this Börte?' 'Yes, Naqu, a true beauty. Despite the dust clinging to her face, the purity of her features shone out like the full moon amidst the shades of night. Her eyes were the most striking. A thousand pinpricks of light, a mixture of gold and emerald. It is said that water and fire may never hold each other, but in her eyes, they embraced. Yet I had only seen nine springs, and her four more, so I felt little at that first meeting – I was still a child. It was my father who was sure that she would make a good wife, and was able to judge her full-blooded and radiant. Old Dei said to him, "People despise you if you give your daughters away without protest. Yet a girl's happiness is not to grow old at the door of her father's tent but to be given to a man. Mine will go to your son but, in exchange, leave Temüjin here until he is old enough to marry." And after a moon spent at Dei's camp, I saw Börte's eyes as I have just described them to you. Now, kind Naqu, if my confiding fascinates you, you should know that I have grown and my body is ready to take her and appreciate her perfumes. I must go and find this woman.'
'Your desire has sprung up: Yesügei was shrewd.'
'Not in all things alike,' replied Temüjin. 'He left at daybreak the next day. He counselled me to serve my guardian Dei in every way and warned him to restrain his dogs, claiming they terrified me. I remember hearing him sing as he rode off. He sang of his horse, of his horse's eyes where the world hung as Tenggeri created it before the coming of men; burning eyes with no temperate place, truer than the flight of swans and more precious than his own life. That was to be the last time I saw my father alive.'
He fell silent.
Like all the Mongols, we knew of Yesügei's disappearance. The story went that he had feasted with some Tatars, who recognised him as the chief of the Borjigin and poisoned him.
'Pay no heed to the rumour which makes the Tatars my father's assassins. Those dogs are delighted enough by his death as it is. My father loved eating, drinking and chasing women, but he would never have shared these pleasures with our enemies.'
'They say he managed to get back to his camp.'
'True, Naqu. He was in pain, vomiting a black liquid and shaking so badly that he couldn't speak. His warriors came to find me at Dei's. For he had a secret that he needed to tell his eldest son, me and me alone. I got there too late. But I am convinced that for him to have feasted with Tatars, one of his acquaintances must have been present, one of our allies.'
'Which of our tribes had cause to poison that great chief?' 'The Sovereigns, Naqu. They are the only other Mongol tribe able to claim a khan amongst its members, and their chief Targutai, with this princely blood, dreams of his ancestor Ambakai's glory. But he is arrogant, ruthless and grasping, and he has neither the stature nor the honour to lay claim to the supreme title.'
Of all the warriors whose praises were sung by the storytellers, Ambakai was my favourite. His cousin Kabul Khan, judging his own sons to be too young for the task, had chosen him as his successor. At Ambakai's death, the Khanate had reverted to the rightful Borjigin line and Kutula, Kabul's fourth son, had assumed the responsibility. Yesügei was Kutula's nephew and, on his son's testimony, he alone had the calibre to become khan.
'Each of my father's successes was an obstacle to Targutai's ambition. He may have drawn closer to Yesügei and the encampments that steadily swelled in number around his banner, but this was only so he could steal away all my father had acquired when the moment was right. That is the truth, Naqu, since today I am alone. Because of Targutai, the prince impostor, I was cut off from my tribe, abandoned and persecuted. I curse him. His thoughts reek; they are worse than vulture's dung. If Tenggeri one day arms my right hand, I will crush him and grind his liver under my boots!' Though he looked at me, his eyes were far too clouded with trouble to see how much I desired the fulfilment of his vow.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Blue Wolf"
by .
Copyright © 1998 Homeric.
Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
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