The Mongoliad: Book One

CHAPTER 25: THE SUBTLETIES OF WRESTLING

Master Chucai left them, galloping back to Karakorum. Black robes streaming behind, he looked like a giant raven clinging to the horse, its talons digging into the animal’s flesh. Lian and Gansukh rode in silence, letting their horses pick their own pace. Neither felt any compelling desire to return to the bustling hive that was the Imperial Court.

“Stop. Look,” Lian said as they came in view of the walls. She touched his arm, drawing him out of his maddeningly convoluted reverie, and pointed toward an expansive cluster of colorful tents clustered around the nearest gate. “The traders who have come for the festival. Let us think about something else for a little while.” Her lips parted, and Gansukh again caught a flash of her teeth. She snapped her horse’s reins. “If you are to face Ögedei, perhaps it would be best to find suitable clothes.”

“I have—”

But she was already ahead of him, and he sat on his horse, grinding his teeth. He would never understand her. Her mind was too foreign, too strange in the way it leapt from subject to subject. He couldn’t let go of things as readily as she did, and other matters that seemed nonsensical and pointless to him were of paramount importance to her.

The wind, full of her laughter, swirled past him.

He cursed, then wheeled the horse about and tapped it into a trot. Why not? he rationalized. If I’m going to be exiled for failure, I might as well have a clean shirt or two to take with me. He laughed as he rode after Lian, not sure how else to react to both this insight and the fact that he did understand courtly thinking more than he wanted to admit.

The caravans hadn’t bothered to enter the city. The camels and pack animals had come to a stop outside the eastern gate, and the merchants had set up their shops in the middle of the road. Their manner of dress was not familiar to him, and he gawked openly at the men’s garish clothing: brightly colored silk pants with tops that didn’t match, shirts that billowed at the arms and waist, sweeping body-length coats with high collars. And the women! Some seemed to wear hardly anything, or what they wore was tight and dark or bright, translucent, and swirling. Many of the women were bare-footed and wore heavy ornamental rings or torques on wrists, necks, ankles. Coins like fish-scale mail armor lay in wreaths on their breasts. The men were more likely to dress in white than the women. Small silver bells hung from belts at their waists, and the high, step-rhythmic tinking of jewelry, coins, and bells added a melodic jangle to the raucous atmosphere of the bazaar.

As Gansukh let his horse pick its way through the crowds, he found himself wondering if Lian would ever wear any such adornments.

Somewhere up ahead, in the shadow of the wall, musicians were performing. The strange, loose music sounded an exotic backdrop to the cacophony of shouting and arguing and haggling. The scents were more foreign still, and Gansukh’s stomach grumbled as he picked out the greasy scents of boiled mutton and roasting chicken, along with the blood smell of dozens of recently slaughtered sheep—the heady, almost overwhelming miasma of a bazaar. Idly he wondered if his stomach could stand up to any food sold from the makeshift stalls. He had only just become accustomed to the rich food of the court.

“They are Persians.” Lian was suddenly at Gansukh’s left elbow. She had wound her hair up in a ball at the back of her neck, held in place by a lacquered comb.

“Persians,” he grunted. Persia was a vast place. “Where in Persia?”

“From the Khwarezmian Empire,” Lian reminded him.

“Ah, yes—the one Genghis defeated.”

Lian pursed her lips, but there was laughter in her eyes. “Genghis Khan defeated many empires,” she said.

“Yes,” he shot back, suddenly weary of her constant role of tutor. “And it is sometimes difficult to remember them all.” As soon as he said the words, he wanted to take them back.

The humor went out of her eyes, and she spat something at him in her native tongue, a language she knew very well he did not understand. Before he could stop her, she kneed her horse into the crowd. He meant to follow her, but a resounding crash of metal on metal startled his own mount. By the time he worked through the crowd and got his horse under control, Lian had vanished.

He stared glumly in the direction she had gone, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Her people belonged to one of those empires. He sighed and glanced around for the source of the noise that had startled his horse. He needed a distraction; he needed time to let his mind untangle itself from the knots into which it had been tied.

He got down from his horse and led the animal through the crowds, halfheartedly looking for Lian. Mostly he wandered, trying to lose himself in the bazaar—trying to let his mind go blank. Soon enough he was surrounded by dark, grinning faces, with long hooked noses and black desert eyes, offering up jewelry, meats, flagons of wine or beer or arkhi.

His stomach had finally decided it could stand a bit of meat, and as Gansukh paused to get his bearings, surrounded by a thick cloud of savory meat smells and spices that now made his mouth water, a vendor caught his eye and waved him over. This one was a more sedentary man, sticking close to his cooking station, also dark-skinned but broad of nose and bushy of beard, and he jabbered at Gansukh, punctuating his words with rapid gestures. The fact that Gansukh had no idea what the man was saying made no difference. Beside him, on a squat stand, was a stone basin filled with fiery coals. Suspended above on a makeshift wire grate were a dozen or so wooden skewers laden with meat, and the entire time he was gabbling—haggling, Gansukh realized—he flipped and rotated the sticks without glancing at them.

The vendor threw up his hand in disgust and waved him off when he tried to purchase only one skewer. His stomach rumbled in disappointment, so Gansukh settled for two. Perhaps he could make himself sick in some sort of penance. Chicken, he thought as he plucked off one of the chunks of meat with his fingers, popped it into his mouth, and chewed. A bit gamey, he decided. But the spices soon took his thoughts away from the age and toughness of the old bird.

The tingling started on the tip of his tongue, and before he could finish swallowing the first piece, the back of his throat was on fire. When he raised his fingers to his face to wipe his streaming eyes, he realized they had plucked the meat from the stick to begin with—too late. He had spread spice to his lids and cheek, and now he could barely see.

The vendor laughed at him, a wide-mouthed braying that went on and on. Gansukh bared his teeth, wiped his eyes with his sleeve, and boldly tossed another chunk of meat into his mouth. His throat constricted at the sudden shock of more long pepper, but he tightened the muscles in his jaw, chewing and swallowing with the frantic determination of a madman. He was not about to spit it out.

As he led his mount away from the meat vendor, one hand clutching reins, the other the skewer, he turned down a narrow alley and discovered a small square filled with stalls selling all manner of housewares—rugs, cooking utensils, dishes. The materials ranged from reeds used for weaving intricate baskets to brightly polished brass fashioned into all manner of cups and bowls.

His mouth still burning, Gansukh wrapped the reins around his forearm, then bent over to pick up a ridiculously large cup with exotic stones set in the sides. “Water,” he gasped, and the slender merchant smiled at the stick of meat held in his left hand and produced a leather skin from beneath his table.

When Gansukh had diluted the fire in his mouth, he tried to return the cup, but the merchant waved him off. Speaking in heavily inflected Mongol, the merchant informed him that the cup belonged to him now. He had drunk from it, had he not? Who would want to buy a used cup? When Gansukh tried to ignore this and again place the cup on the spread cloth, the merchant’s tone grew angry, and his gestures became more animated. Did Gansukh think that just because the Mongols had conquered the known world, they could take what they wanted, whenever they wanted—and not pay? Why didn’t Gansukh just kill him now and save him the humiliation of being robbed of his life’s work? And again, louder still.

Gansukh sighed and dug out a few coins from his pouch. He was out of his depth amongst these shameless hawkers. All at once he was reminded of the vast gulf between life at court and in the towns and life on the steppes, and how he would never truly fit in with the former. Still, this merchant is no worse than our horse traders…

Depressed, convinced he should have known better—and now burdened with an enormous metal cup, as well as a stick and a half of spiced meat for which, literally, he might have no further stomach—he tugged with his arm on his horse’s reins and headed for the gate to Karakorum.

Passing the pavilion beneath the walls where the musicians were playing, he slowed to watch. Half a dozen men played instruments roughly similar to ones he knew, but these were rounder and taller and had more strings or more pipes than he was accustomed to. Their songs were sinuous and rhythmic, filled with serpentine melodies that reminded him of the wind’s song out on the plain. He found himself rooted to the spot and didn’t even notice the young woman in light-blue silk pants until she planted her feet boldly, with arms crossed, right in front of his horse. The horse blew out its breath and stopped short, then shook out its mane in irritation.

Having caught Gansukh’s attention, the girl now rushed a few steps to stand before him, brought her hands together above her head, bent her arms akimbo, and began to move her hips to the music. The belt around her waist was fitted with silver bells, and Gansukh noted with pleasure that they were the sort of bells he had heard earlier. The musicians, in response to the flick of her hips, quickened the tempo, and she responded in kind, flexing her body and twirling around Gansukh in a flurry of colored silk.

Someone pushed a stool into the back of Gansukh’s legs, and he sat down heavily as the crowd around him started to clap in time with the music. The horse chuffed and nickered, its eyes wide, and Gansukh touched its flank with his hand so that it would not kick out and injure someone.

The woman produced a red silk scarf and draped it over Gansukh’s left shoulder. Slowly she pulled it back and forth around his neck. She brought her face close to his and drew a long fingernail under his chin. Her eyes were hazel green and lined with a color that matched her blue outfit. She gave him an exaggerated wink and, as Gansukh laughed, raised the red scarf above her head and pulled it tight between both hands. Matching the beat of the music and the crowd, she tilted her hips up and down, left and right, making the silver bells at her waist dance and ring. Gansukh couldn’t take his eyes off the woman’s slender waist. She smiled knowingly and crooked a finger at him, beckoning him to stand and follow her. Glancing over her shoulder to see that he was still watching her, she began to move toward a small maroon tent set up behind the band.

Gansukh grinned and stood up—and found his way blocked.

“Persian culture is fascinating, isn’t it?” Lian’s hands were on her hips. Gansukh’s grin faltered.

“I…”

“You?”

“She…”

“She what?”

Gansukh looked over Lian’s head. The woman in blue was standing at the door to the maroon tent. She gave Gansukh a pouty look, pushing out her lower lip, and pulled the tent flap open wide.

“She…has bells.”

Lian gave him a withering look. She has bells?

With a snap, Gansukh broke eye contact with the dancer. “Bells…which would look better on you.” His grin returned.

“Oh, by the heavens.” Lian rolled her eyes. “I leave you alone for—”

“I was hungry,” Gansukh said, trying to change the subject. Remembering the sticks of meat, he offered her one.

“I can see that.” Still the same cold tone.

“I thought you—”

“I did,” she snapped.

Gansukh realized she was holding a broad piece of cloth, and when he stared at it uncomprehendingly, she exhaled noisily and hurled it at his feet before storming off into the crowd.

More confused than ever, he looked at the cup and the sticks of meat in his hands, and finally put the meat in the cup so that he could bend down and pick up the cloth.

It was a silk robe, as blue as the summer sky. An intricate pattern of interwoven tree branches, done in red and gold thread, ran down the front. Small birds nested in the tips, and hidden deep within the snarled bramble, he saw the lean faces of wolves.

It was the most beautiful article of clothing he had ever seen.

After a night of restless sleep, Gansukh was no closer to understanding any of the puzzles that continued to vex him. He was no closer to comprehending the Khagan’s depression and madness, nor how to reach the man who was lost in an alcoholic stupor. Lian was angry with him, and while he knew he shouldn’t care what a Chinese slave thought, his brain was constantly churning with confusion and frustration about her.

Not to mention the lacquered box. There had to be a way to open it, and while he could simply crush it with the pommel of his sword, such a solution could destroy what lay inside. It remained a tantalizing mystery—a symbol of his inability to fathom the intricacies of a seemingly simple problem.

He had left the box in his chamber, tucked in the inner pocket of the robe Lian had bought him. Then he had left his room, trying to put both out of his mind. The robe hung behind a paper screen. Hiding all of his secrets.

As he wandered around the compound, Gansukh couldn’t shake Master Chucai’s parting words from the other day: You simply need permission, and not from me or the Khagan.

Who, then? And what sort of permission?

Out on the steppe, he needed no permission from anyone. He was in charge of his own life. Even when he traveled with other clansmen, they each knew how to provide for themselves and those who relied upon them for safety and sustenance. They didn’t need to be reminded or commanded. In an arban, each man answered to the others in the squad, and their arban commander answered to the jaghun commander. The jaghun commanders answered to the noyon of their minghan, and so on, up to the Khagan himself. It was a simple chain of command—one that had proven itself effective for many a military campaign.

But if he wasn’t supposed to follow that chain of command, then who was he supposed to answer to?

It wasn’t an impossible riddle. Gansukh couldn’t believe that Master Chucai would waste his time playing such games. He wanted Gansukh to discover some insight—one of Lian’s constant reminders was that a lesson self-learned was much more likely to be remembered than a lesson taught—and he was sure Chucai had inflicted that same aphorism on her during her own education. These sorts of intellectual jabs were always passed on from master to student, generation to generation.

Who had taught Master Chucai? he wondered. Chucai had been an advisor to Genghis Khan; he had been there when Ögedei Khan’s father built the empire. Who had taught him? Gansukh wondered, and then another question posed itself: Whom had Genghis sought permission from?

He hadn’t. But that wasn’t the whole answer. He had bound the clans to him. Had he asked their permission? No, they had come to him. Why?

As he mulled over that question, he noticed he had wandered close to the quarters of the Day Guard, unconsciously summoned by grunts of exertion and the sound of flesh on flesh and of bodies striking packed earth. The morning wrestling practice. Gansukh had watched them on a few previous occasions; early in his education, Lian had suggested befriending some of the Imperial Guard as a way of helping his standing at court. He hadn’t acted upon her idea previously, citing the excuse that having drawn the ire of Munokhoi on several occasions, there was the distinct possibility that seeking out the Torguud might be more foolish than wise, but now, with the question of the source of Genghis Khan’s leadership in his mind, he reconsidered his standing with the Torguud.

Munokhoi might be able to command a certain amount of authority among the Day Guard by virtue of his rank, but given the reaction he’d gotten from the Khevtuul (the Night Guard) after the incident in the garden, Gansukh suspected Munokhoi wasn’t well liked. Munokhoi’s jaghun was only a portion of the whole Torguud, and it was likely the remainder of the Day Guard might have a similar lack of respect for the cruel commander.

Respect among warriors was hard earned and easily lost. There were only a handful of ways in which a man could win and keep the respect of his peers.

Wrestling was one of them.

The reigning wrestling champion of the Imperial Guard was Namkhai, a tall, heavy-set grappler who—as Gansukh had seen—invariably broke into a chortle and grinned like a demon as his opponent showed any sign of nerves. Some capitulated as soon as he started to smile, knowing they had already shown too much weakness. Others held out longer, until Namkhai caught them in a bear hug and began to cackle in their ears. Gansukh wasn’t sure how he would react to Namkhai’s gambit, but he wanted to find out. He wanted to find out what it took to change the expression on the wrestler’s face.

He wanted to find out what it took to earn the man’s respect.

Gansukh was no stranger to wrestling. Chagatai Khan’s own personal guard held regular wrestling matches, and he had won a number of bouts. There was a difference in the rules, though, between those observed by Chagatai’s guards and by the Torguud. On the wrestling field of Karakorum, a fighter could not grab the legs of his opponent. The wrestlers could only grip their opponent’s arms or upper body in their efforts to throw the other off balance. A match was lost when a wrestler’s upper body, elbow, or knee touched the ground.

Stripped to the waist, Gansukh warily watched Namkhai as the champion took a moment to play to the gathered crowd before entering the marked-off area of the wrestling field. Namkhai approached Gansukh, a tiny sliver of a smile quirking the edge of his lips. Namkhai was both taller and heavier, but his gait was stiff—his hips and thighs moved as one massive column of bone and muscle. Gansukh was faster, more nimble, and when Namkhai tensed his body and threw out his hands, Gansukh only had to flinch to one side to avoid the champion’s large grip. He closed, trying to get a headlock.

The champion resisted, and as he pulled back, Gansukh let go and used both hands to push explosively on Namkhai’s chest. Namkhai stumbled backward, arms swinging wildly to keep his balance. It would have been so easy to reach down, grab Namkhai by his thighs, and flip him to the ground, but Gansukh held back. This was Ögedei’s court; he had to win by the Torguud’s rules.

Namkhai’s grin faltered, and his hands flexed dangerously as he regained his balance. The champion regarded Gansukh carefully, appraising him more closely. With a tiny nod, Namkhai acknowledged Gansukh’s first attack; even if Gansukh lost the fight, they both knew that—if the rules had been different—Gansukh would have won.

Namkhai advanced again, and Gansukh hunched his back slightly, pulling his shoulders in to give the impression that he wasn’t going to attack. A submissive pose. I am on the defensive. Let Namkhai make the first move. Given the weight difference between them, it was unlikely Gansukh could outmuscle the champion. But he could use Namkhai’s assault against him. If the bigger man lunged and grabbed him, Gansukh could twist and manage their fall so Namkhai’s shoulders hit the ground first. He turned his hips slightly, letting his left foot slide back a few inches.

Namkhai leaped forward.

A yell rose from the crowd, a wall of sound that rose over and collapsed on Gansukh as Namkhai barreled across the packed dirt. He had seen Namkhai charge other opponents; he had seen the force of Namkhai’s assault as it crumpled the defenses of those who, foolishly, thought they could withstand such an impact. But Gansukh didn’t try to stop Namkhai.

Instead he met Namkhai’s rush with a bear hug, gasping as the full force of the champion’s charge slammed into his chest. He was going to fall, and forcefully twisting his upper body, he pushed off the ground with his right foot. Suddenly they were both airborne, nearly perpendicular to the ground. Namkhai’s grin vanished as he stared wide-eyed at the sky, amazed at the sudden change of view.

The champion reacted, more by instinct than conscious thought. In mid-fall, he knifed his body against Gansukh and got his feet underneath him. He landed in a deep crouch, with the whole of Gansukh’s weight bearing down on his chest. He bellowed as his back arched painfully; growling in frustration, Gansukh squeezed his arms and tried to find enough leverage to push Namkhai even farther. He was stunned Namkhai had found his footing—the man was inhuman! They strained against one another, neither one able to shift the other. All Gansukh could hear was the grinding sound of his teeth and the hiss of air escaping from Namkhai’s pursed lips.

The crowd had fallen silent.

Their eyes met, and Gansukh realized Namkhai was aware of the silence too.

Gansukh glanced around, and as he became aware of the circle of spectators, he spotted a gap in the crowd. Namkhai saw it too, and without hesitation, they both released their holds on the other and stepped apart.

A space opened in the circle of Torguud spectators and quickly filled with a retinue of servants and courtiers, which at the very last parted to form two protective walls. Now appeared the Khagan himself, with his most intimate servants and chamberlains. To the Khagan’s right, an exceptionally short man hovered, bearing aloft a tray of tiny silver cups.

Ögedei Khan held one cup in his hand and was wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “Don’t stop on my account,” he said loudly. “Gansukh, you nearly had our champion bested.”

Gansukh and Namkhai, having bowed at the sudden appearance of the Khagan, now stood awkwardly at the center of the field. Gansukh could barely summon the strength to lift his arms, and his teeth ached from how much he had been grinding them. Namkhai’s face gleamed with sweat, and his hair lay matted against his head. His chest heaved, and he looked to be in no rush to start the fight again. Gansukh swiped at his forehead, clearing the sweat that was starting to sting his eyes, then brought his hands together and bowed again to the Khagan. He remained bent over, trying to catch Namkhai’s attention with a subtle tilt of his head.

Namkhai slapped his hands together and bowed as well.

“No?” Ögedei Khan was jovial with wine and readily dismissed their refusal. “We’ll save the rematch for another time. Here”—he motioned to two men on opposite sides of the field—“you two. Fight for me.”

Gansukh and Namkhai retired from the field as the two chosen guards bent their knees and began flapping their arms in an imitation of the hawk, the traditional way to start a match. They reached the center, bent at the waist, and brought their arms down into a fighting stance. They then awaited the Khagan’s word.

“Go!” Ögedei Khan bellowed.

At the sidelines, jostled by men who slapped his back and shoulders in congratulations at a match well fought, Gansukh fought to catch his breath. While the rest of the men watched the two new combatants, he kept his eye on the Khagan.

The short servant adeptly kept the tray in motion, dancing about and rotating it effortlessly with the Khagan’s every move, to keep a steady supply of full cups near his reach. Ögedei downed each in one motion, slamming the empty cup upside down on the tray. The servant flinched with each one but kept the tray upright and moving. Gansukh wondered what happened when all the cups were overturned. Would the Khagan stop drinking? Judging by his unconscious swaying motion and the strident volume of his humor, that probably wasn’t the case. In fact, this was probably not the first tray of cups.

As the Khagan snapped his head back again, Gansukh scanned the crowd to see if anyone else was paying attention to the Khagan’s drinking, and he was relieved to see everyone’s attention was on the wrestling match.

Everyone except Namkhai.

The wrestling champion felt Gansukh’s gaze and glanced over his shoulder. His eyes met Gansukh’s for a second, and then he turned and rudely shoved his way through the crowd. But it was too late. Gansukh had seen his expression.

The big man had lost his grin, and his face was a mask of disgust and dismay.

The Khagan did not seek, or even need, permission from his subjects, but he did need something—respect. Hard earned and easily lost.

A yell rose from the crowd as one of the wrestlers bested the other, sending him sprawling to the ground on his hands and knees. His opponent helped him to his feet as the Khagan roared his approval.

“Let us eat and drink tonight!” he shouted. “A feast for our fighters.” He staggered as he glanced around the sea of faces, and Gansukh ducked behind a cluster of off-duty guards. His face burned with shame for hiding, but even more for not wanting to be seen beside the Khagan.

He was beginning to understand Master Chucai’s riddle. It wasn’t enough to stop Ögedei’s drinking. The whole empire was in danger of being poisoned with loss of respect.

The Khagan slammed another tiny cup down on the tray. How many of those would he consume in one day? Gansukh wondered, and then an idea struck him.

One cup, he thought. One instead of dozens.

It was a preposterous idea, but it could work.