Chagatai snorted.
‘I am not talking about the skills of war,’ Borte said, nettled. ‘You will both be fine warriors, I have seen it in you.’ Before they could begin to preen at the rare compliment, she went on.
‘Your father will look to see if you can lead men and think quickly. Did you see the way he raised Tsubodai to command a hundred? The boy is unknown, of no blood line that matters, but your father respects his mind and his skill. He will be tested, but he could be a general when he has his full growth. He could command a thousand, even ten thousand warriors in war. Will you do the same?’
‘Why not?’ Chagatai said instantly.
Borte turned to him.
‘When you are playing with your friends, are you the one the others look to? Do they follow your ideas or do you follow theirs? Think hard now, for there will be many who flatter you because of your father. Think of those you respect. Do they listen?’
Chagatai bit his lip as he thought. He shrugged.
‘Some of them. They are children.’
‘Why would they follow you when you spend your days fighting with your brother?’ she said, pressing him.
The little boy looked resentful as he struggled with ideas too big for him. He raised his chin in defiance.
‘They won’t follow Jochi. He thinks they should, but they never will.’
Borte felt a coldness touch her chest at the words.
‘Really, my son?’ she said softly. ‘Why would they not follow your older brother?’
Chagatai turned his head away and Borte reached out and gripped him painfully by his arm. He did not cry out, though tears showed at the corners of his eyes.
‘Are there secrets between us, Chagatai?’ Borte asked, her voice grating. ‘Why would they never follow Jochi?’
‘Because he is a Tartar bastard!’ Chagatai shouted. This time, the slap that Borte landed on her son was not gentle. It knocked his head to one side and he sprawled on the bed, dazed. Blood trickled from his nose and he began to wail in shock.
Jochi spoke quietly behind her.
‘He tells them that all the time,’ he said. His voice was dark with fury and despair and Borte found tears in her own eyes at the pain he was suffering. Chagatai’s crying had wakened her two youngest sons and they too began to sob, affected by the scene in the ger without understanding it.
Borte reached out to Jochi and enfolded him in her arms.
‘You cannot wish it back into your brother’s foolish mouth,’ she murmured into his hair. She pulled back then to look into Jochi’s eyes, wanting him to understand. ‘Some words can be a cruel weight on a man, unless he learns to ignore them. You will have to be better than all the others to win your father’s approval. You know it now.’
‘Is it true then?’ he whispered, looking away. He felt the stiffness in her back as she considered her answer and he began to sob gently himself.
‘Your father and I begat you on a winter plain, hundreds of miles from the Tartars. It is true that I was lost to him for a time and he … killed the men who had taken me, but you are his son and mine. His first-born.’
‘My eyes are different, though,’ he said.
Borte snorted.
‘So were Bekter’s when they were young. He was a son of Yesugei, but his eyes were as dark as yours. No one ever dared to question his blood. Do not think of it, Jochi. You are a grandson of Yesugei and a son of Genghis. You will be a khan one day.’
As Chagatai snuffled and wiped blood onto his hand, Jochi grimaced, leaning back to look at his mother. Visibly, he summoned his courage, taking a deep breath before speaking. His voice quavered, humiliating him in front of his brothers.
‘He killed his brother,’ he said, ‘and I have seen the way he looks at me. Does he love me at all?’
Borte pressed the little boy into her breast, her heart breaking for him.
‘Of course he does. You will make him see you as his heir, my son. You will make him proud.’
It took five thousand warriors even longer to divert the canals with earth and rubble than it had to break them. Genghis had given the order when he saw the flood levels were threatening even the rising ground of the new camp. When the work was done, the water formed new lakes to the east and west, but at last the way to Yinchuan was drying in the sun. The ground was thick with greasy black plants and swarms of biting flies that irritated the tribes. Their ponies sank to the knees in sticky mud, making it hard to scout and adding to a feeling of confinement in the gers. There were many arguments and fights among the tribes each evening and Kachiun was hard pressed to keep the peace.
The news that eight riders were toiling across the sodden plain was welcomed by all those who had grown tired of their inactivity. They had not come through the desert to remain in one place. Even the children had lost interest in the floodwaters and many of them had become ill from drinking stagnant water.
Genghis watched the Xi Xia horsemen struggle through the mud. He had assembled five thousand of his warriors to face them on the dry ground, placing them right on the edge of the mud so that his enemy would have no place to rest. The Xi Xia horses were already blowing with the effort of pulling each leg from the clotted soil and the riders were hard pressed to keep their dignity as they risked a fall.
To Genghis’ enormous pleasure, one of them did slip from the saddle when his mount lurched into a hole. The tribes hooted in derision as the man yanked savagely on his reins and remounted, soaked in filth. Genghis glanced at Barchuk at his side, noting the man’s expression of satisfaction. He was there as an interpreter, but Kokchu and Temuge stood with them as well to hear what the king’s messenger had to say. Both men had taken to their studies of the Chin language with what Genghis considered to be indecent enjoyment. The shaman and Genghis’ younger brother were clearly excited at the chance to test their newfound knowledge.
The riders halted as Genghis raised a flat palm. They had come just close enough for him to hear their words and, though they seemed unarmed, he was not a trusting man. If he were in the position of the Xi Xia king, an attempt at assassination would certainly be something he considered at that time. At his back, the tribes watched in silence, their double-curved bows ready in their hands.
‘Are you lost?’ Genghis called to them. He watched as they glanced to one of their number, a soldier in fine armour that extended to a headpiece of iron scales. Genghis nodded to himself, knowing the man would speak for them all. He was not disappointed.
‘I bear a message from the king of the Xi Xia,’ the soldier replied. To the disappointment of Temuge and Kokchu, the words were perfectly clear in the language of the tribes.
Genghis looked questioningly at Barchuk and the Uighur khan spoke in a murmur, barely moving his lips.
‘I have seen him before, at the trading days. He is an officer of some middle rank, very proud.’
‘He looks it, in that fine armour,’ Genghis replied, before raising his voice to address the soldiers.
‘Dismount if you would talk to me,’ Genghis called. The riders exchanged resigned glances and Genghis masked his amusement as they stepped down into thick mud. They were held almost immobile by its grip and their expressions raised his spirits.
‘What does your king have to say?’ Genghis continued, staring at the officer. The man had flushed in anger as the mud ruined his fine boots and took a moment