Genghis: Empire of Silver - By Conn Iggulden Page 0,1
warriors had turned him away with kicks and laughter, telling him to tend his flocks. Batu had drunk airag for the first time with him that night and been sick for two days. The recruiters had not come for him either, not with the betrayer’s blood running in his veins. Batu had seen them out looking for strong lads, but when their gaze passed over him, they shrugged and turned away. He was as tall and strong as his father had been, but they did not want him.
With a shock, Batu realised the riders were not passing through. He watched as they stopped to speak to one of his mother’s neighbours and he took a sharp breath in amazement as the old man pointed in Batu’s direction. The horsemen trotted towards him and he stood rooted, watching as they came closer. He found he did not know what to do with his hands and folded them over his chest twice before letting them dangle. From inside the ger, he heard his mother calling some question, but he did not reply. He could not. He had seen the man riding at the head of the group.
There were no pictures in the poor gers, though one or two Chin paintings had found their way into the homes of the wealthiest families. Yet Batu had seen his father’s brother once. On a feast day years before, he had crept up close, peering between warriors for a sight of the great khan. Ogedai and Jochi had been with Genghis then and time had not faded the bright memory, among the most bitter-sweet in all his young years. It had been a glimpse of the life he might have had, before his father threw it all away for some petty squabble Batu did not even understand.
Ogedai rode bareheaded, in armour lacquered shining black. He wore his hair in the Chin style, as a heavy rope falling from a topknot on a bare, shaved scalp. Batu drank in every detail of the man as his mother’s voice called plaintively again from inside. He could see that the great khan’s son was looking directly at him and speaking, but Batu was tongue-tied, dumb. The yellow eyes were bright up close and he was lost in the realisation that he was staring at his uncle by blood.
‘Is he slow-witted?’ one of the warriors said. Batu shut his open mouth. ‘My lord Ogedai is speaking to you, boy. Are you deaf?’
Batu found himself flushing with great heat. He shook his head, suddenly irritated to have such men ride up to his mother’s ger. What would they think of the patched walls, the smell, the flies in the air? It was humiliating and his shock turned quickly to anger. Even then, he did not reply. Men like these had killed his father, his mother said. The life of a ragged son would mean little to them.
‘Have you no voice at all?’ Ogedai said. He was smiling at something and Batu responded crookedly.
‘I have,’ he said. He saw one of the warriors reach down, but he did not expect a blow and he staggered a step as a mailed glove connected with the side of his head.
‘I have, my lord,’ the warrior said without heat.
Batu shrugged as he straightened up. His ear was burning, but he’d known worse.
‘I have a voice, my lord,’ he said, doing his best to remember the warrior’s face.
Ogedai discussed him as if he wasn’t present. ‘It wasn’t just a story then. I can see my brother in his face and he’s already as tall as my father. How old are you, boy?’
Batu stood very still, trying to collect himself. Some part of him had always wondered if his mother had been exaggerating his father’s position. To have it confirmed so casually was more than he could take in.
‘Fifteen years,’ he said. He saw the warrior begin to lean forward again and added ‘my lord’ quickly. The warrior leaned back in his saddle and nodded to him complacently.
Ogedai frowned. ‘You’re old to be starting out. Training should begin at seven or eight at the latest, if you’re ever to draw a good bow.’ He saw Batu’s confusion and smiled, pleased to be able to do such a thing. ‘Still, I will be watching you. Report to General Jebe tomorrow. He has his camp about a hundred miles to the north, near a village by a cliff. You can find it?’