After thorough consideration of the Yellow Emperor’s insights, he turned his shoulders and raised his arms. The tiger became an enormous stork, and he stretched to his full height in a stiffened parody of the bird’s own motion as it leaped into flight. He inhaled until his lungs were swollen with air; as he exhaled, he relaxed his arms and let his leg come back to the ground.
Only then did he acknowledge the fidgeting slave who had been standing nearby since before dawn had breached the eastern horizon. “Yes?”
“Master,” the slave bowed, “Mistress Lian has given me her travel trunk, and I have loaded it with the rest of your household.”
Chucai undid the ties on the sleeves of his robe, letting them down. “Did you examine it?”
“Yes, Master. Nothing but clothes and all the other things a woman carries with her.”
Chucai nodded absently. No food or money. No sign that she was harboring a plan to flee. He waved the slave away. Nevertheless, he would keep an eye on the Chinese woman. She had been in his household a long time, and he knew all her moods. She was hiding something from him, and while he suspected it was nothing more than a foolish infatuation with Gansukh, he was not entirely confident there wasn’t something else on her mind.
She was an intelligent woman, and she had a certain animal cunning that he knew better than to dismiss. If he were in her place, he would consider escaping during the trip to Burqan-qaldun. It would be the best time.
Chucai left the pastoral embrace of the garden, his mental energies restored by the rigors of his qi meditation. The garden was a placid calm within the swollen chaos of the palace grounds. Walking toward the main courtyard, he reentered the bedlam of the court’s preparations.
The activity that filled the courtyard was not unlike a city marshaling for war.
Hundreds of people swarmed the courtyard, jostling and yelling at one another. What had once been an orderly attempt at a long column of carts had collapsed into a confused mass. Supplies were being thrown, hauled, shoved, and haphazardly stacked in a frenzied effort to get everything packed on top of something with wheels. Crates of dried fruit and meat; barrels of airag, arkhi, and wine; bags of clothing and furnishings; medical supplies; the heavy bundles of dismantled ger; weapons-all manner of goods needed to sustain the hundreds of travelers who would be going with the Khagan.
Six hundred and four. Chucai knew the exact number, just as he knew how many barrels of arkhi and crates of dried meat were being loaded as well.
Six hundred and nine, actually, if one were to count the prisoners from Onghwe, but the Khagan, in a moment of lucidity a few days ago, had reminded him that these men would not be traveling any farther than Burqan-qaldun.
At the center of this activity was the Khagan’s wheeled ger. The hides stretched tightly over its wooden frame had been painted white, and the morning light made them glow. A team of eight oxen shifted impatiently, and behind the ger, six supply carts were being frantically readied.
Late the day before, Chucai had given the order that all preparations be completed by sunrise. Though he doubted Ogedei would emerge from his quarters until late morning, he wanted the caravan ready to depart the instant the Khagan climbed onto the platform of his movable tent. The caravan masters knew they would be left behind were they not ready, and none of them wanted to face the shame of having to chase the Khagan across the steppes.
In a rough line to the north of Ogedei’s ger and supply carts were three smaller wheeled ger: two for Ogedei’s wives, followed by one to be utilized by Chucai and a few other important advisors.
Ogedei had casually mentioned that he expected Gansukh to be given space in this tent, and Chucai had simply nodded. He had no intention of allowing Gansukh and Lian to sleep in the same ger. For a while, he had been incensed at the idea, more so when he realized his reaction was that of a protective father more than the Khagan’s senior advisor. Fortunately, Ogedei had mentioned the same expectation to Gansukh, and the young man had come to him to ask the best way to decline the Khagan’s suggestion. I need some…space, Gansukh had said. I would prefer my own ger.
Staring at the mob of Imperial Guard lined up behind the three ger, Chucai understood the need. Three jaghun of mounted soldiers, Munokhoi’s elite troop, and two companies of a hundred men each. Their supply train stretched out of the palace gates-cooks, doctors, livestock drivers, wagon masters. A small group of acrobatic entertainers caught Chucai’s eye as they performed up and down the supply line. Mukha had shrieked for half a day when she had been told they couldn’t come along; Chucai had relented finally, only to get her to shut up, and he secretly hoped a Chinese raiding party would confuse them for an unguarded supply caravan.
There was no sign of Gansukh or Lian. He was not concerned yet, but he kept an eye out for them.
13
Gregory is dead.
The three words staggered Rodrigo. From this simple statement spun a maelstrom of confusion. The Pope-dead. To whom would he deliver his message? Why had God sent him here when there was no way for him to be relieved of his burden? The Church would be consumed with discord as the factions vied for dominance, and he couldn’t wait until a new Pope was elected. Christendom was under attack. A vast threat was coming out of the East, and he had been sent to warn the Church.
Robert of Somercotes tried to continue their conversation-speaking of cardinals, their duty to the Church, and of the sede vacante-but Rodrigo could grasp nothing of what the other man was trying to tell him. The news of the Pope’s death was too overwhelming. Not even food and water could completely lift the burden of his exhaustion-the burden of his duty. The weight crushed him, and he lay back on the pallet. Sobbing gently, he collapsed into a dreamless stupor-not sleep but a complete senselessness of both mind and spirit. His body demanded rest. His journey was not done yet, and if he was going to survive, he needed strength, both in body and spirit.
When he woke, the three words still churned in his head-Gregory is dead-but somewhere in his senseless slumber, he had located a hidden reserve of strength. God would not abandon him, not as long as he continued to believe his burden was just. Not as long as he had faith.
By the warm tint of the light in the tiny, high-ceilinged room, he knew it was day-by the relative cool, still morning. Rodrigo felt his stomach rumble and almost chuckled at it, as if it were some sickly child that had finally grown healthy enough to complain.
Gingerly, sore all over and still feverish, the priest staggered to his feet and took a few uncertain steps toward the open door. He could walk, perhaps even for some distance. Praise God. He shuffled carefully down a stone hallway. Doors at irregular intervals opened on either side into other rooms like his, although several, at a glance, had more furnishings, or at least boasted places to hang clothing-cloaks and robes, the vestments of religious men.