‘You are alone, mistress?’ he asked.
For a moment, her eyes shone.
‘I am not alone. Do you not see them? My husband, Ogedai Khan, stands on my right hand. My son, Guyuk Khan, stands on my left. Do you not see those men watching what you do?’
The officer paled slightly, his eyes sliding right and left as if he could see the spirits watching over her. He grimaced, aware that his companions would be listening and every word reported to Mongke.
‘I have my orders, mistress,’ he said, almost apologetically.
Torogene raised her head further, standing as straight as she could.
‘I am brought down by dogs,’ she muttered, contempt banishing her fear. Her voice was strong as she spoke again. ‘There is a price for all things, soldier.’ She looked up, as if she could see through the stone roof above their heads. ‘Mongke Khan will fall. His eyes will fill with blood and he will not know rest or sleep or peace. He will live in pain and sickness and at the end …’
The officer drew his sword and brought it across her throat in one swift movement. She fell with a groan, suddenly limp as blood poured out of her and spattered on his boots. The watching men said nothing as they waited for her to die. When it was finished, they left quietly, unnerved in the silence. They did not look at each other as they mounted their horses and rode away.
As he faced Mongke, General Ilugei found himself strangely troubled, an unusual emotion for him. He knew it was a sound tactic for a new leader to sweep away all those who had supported his predecessor. Beyond that, it was the merest common sense to remove anyone with a blood tie to the previous regime. There would be no rebellions in the future, as forgotten children grew to manhood and learned to hate. The lessons of Genghis’ own life had been learned by his descendants.
Ilugei had taken particular pleasure in putting his own enemies on the lists he prepared for Mongke, a level of power he had never enjoyed before. He simply spoke a name to a scribe and within a day the khan’s loyal guards tracked them down and carried out the execution. There was no appeal against the lists.
Yet what Ilugei had seen that morning had unnerved him, ruining his usual composure. He had known still-born children before. His own wives had given birth to four of them over the years. Perhaps because of that, the sight of the tiny flopping body had sickened him. He suspected Mongke would think it a weakness in him, so he kept his voice calm, sounding utterly indifferent as he reported.
‘I think Guyuk’s wife may have lost her mind, my lord,’ he said to Mongke. ‘She talked and wept like a child herself. All the time she cradled the dead infant as if it was still alive.’
Mongke bit his lower lip in thought, irritated that such a simple thing should become so complicated. The heir had been the threat. Without one, he might have sent Oghul Khaimish back to her family. He was khan in all but name, he reminded himself. Yet his new authority stretched only so far. Silently, he cursed Ilugei’s man for going into such detail of her crimes. A public accusation of witchcraft could not be ignored. He clenched his fist, thinking of a thousand other things he had to do that day. Forty-three of Guyuk’s closest followers had been executed in just a few days, their blood still wet on the training ground of the city. More would follow in the days to come as he lanced the boil in Karakorum.
‘Let it stand,’ he said at last. ‘Add her name to the list and let there be an ending.’
Ilugei bowed his head, hiding his own obscure disappointment.
‘Your will, my lord.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Oghul Khaimish stood on the banks of the Orkhon river, watching the dark waters flowing. Her hands were bound behind her, grown fat and numb in the bonds. Two men stood at her sides to prevent her throwing herself in before it was time. In the dawn cold, she shivered slightly, trying to control the terror that threatened to steal away her dignity.
Mongke was there, standing with some of his favourites. She saw him smile at something one of his officers said. Gone were the days when they would have made a bright and lively scene. To a man, his warriors and senior men were dressed in simple deels, without decoration beyond a little stitching. Most wore the traditional Mongol hairstyles, with a shaven scalp and topknot. Their faces shone with fresh mutton fat. Only Yao Shu and his few remaining Chin scribes were unarmed. The rest wore long swords that reached almost to their ankles, heavy cavalry blades designed for cutting down. Karakorum had its own foundry, where armourers sweated all day at their fires. It was no secret that Mongke was preparing for war once he had butchered the last of Guyuk’s supporters and friends.
Her husband’s supporters and friends. Oghul could not feel anything on that day, as if she had grown a protective sheath over her heart. She had lost too much in too short a time and she still reeled from all that had happened. She could not bear to look at her old servant Bayarmaa, trussed with a dozen others as they waited in sullen silence for Mongke to order their deaths.
The orlok seemed in no hurry. He was a solid figure at the centre of them, almost half as wide again as the largest warrior in his retinue. Despite his bulk, he moved easily, a man secure in his strength and still young enough to enjoy it. Oghul stood and dreamed of him being struck dead in front of them all, but it was just a fantasy. Mongke was oblivious to the misery in the huddled rank of prisoners. Even as she watched, he accepted a cup of airag from a servant, laughing with his friends. Somehow, that burned worse than anything, that he should care so little for their fate even as they stood on their last day. Oghul saw one of the bound men had lost control of his bladder, so that a thin stream of urine darkened his leggings and pooled at his feet. He did not seem to notice, his eyes already blank. She looked away, trying to find her own courage. All that man had to fear was a knife. For her, it would be slow.
It was no blessing that Mongke had agreed the wife of a khan was one of royal blood. She looked at the dark canal Ogedai had built and shivered again. She could feel the urge to empty her own bladder, though she had been careful not to drink that morning. Her face and hands felt cold as the blood was leached away and her heartbeat increased. Even so, she was sweating and the cloth at her armpits was already wet. She focused on the small changes in her body as she waited, trying desperately to distract herself.
Mongke finished his airag and tossed the cup back to the servant. He nodded to one of his officers and the man bellowed a command to come to order. All the men there straightened, even some of the prisoners, standing as tall as they could in their bonds. Oghul shook her head at the poor fools. Did they expect to impress their tormentors and gain mercy? There was none to be had.
Yao Shu was present and Oghul thought she could see the signs of great strain on the old man. She had heard the chancellor had been absent for the first executions, claiming illness. With a delicate feel for cruelty, Mongke had sensed his discomfort. Now Yao Shu played a part in all the deaths. Oghul listened to the list of names, watching sadly as each prisoner lifted his head slightly as he heard his own.
After the endless wait, the procedure suddenly started to go quickly. The prisoners were kicked to their knees and a very young warrior stepped from Mongke’s group, drawing a long sword. Oghul knew he would have earned the duty as a reward for some service to Mongke. Many of the warriors desired the task if they had not yet been blooded in battle. Oghul recalled that Genghis had killed tens of thousands in one foreign city for no other purpose than to train his men in the reality of killing.
She did not listen to Yao Shu’s shaking voice as he called out the charges, reading from the page in front of him. The executioner braced himself over the first kneeling figure, determined to make a good show in front of Mongke.
Oghul looked over the river as the killing began, ignoring the shouts of approval and laughter from among Mongke’s group. Bayarmaa was fourth in line and Oghul had to force herself to look as the old woman’s