HE one of whom the stranger spoke was a Mongol. This invader from the far east resembled Shotha Kupri in body, having high shoulders and the barrel of a bear. But there the resemblance ceased. Subotai, the Mongol, was long of body and his short legs curved inward as if the years he had spent in the saddle of a horse had shaped them so. His bony, weather-beaten head was massive, and his greenish eyes gleamed with good humor that changed in an instant to anger.
Earlier that afternoon, before the stranger had appeared to Avak out of the fog, Subotai might have been seen as he talked with his officers in the Mongol camp. Subotai Bahadur, surnamed Orluk and leader of a Horde, sat at ease in his tent, having before his eyes all that he considered pleasant, even luxurious.
On the great teak pole of the pavilion were hung the banners of the princes he had overthrown and put to death in the last two years—eventful years, even for the Orluk, who was the favorite of that scourge of Asia, Genghis Khan. He counted two Persian banners, richly gilded, and the horned standard of the erstwhile Lord of Islam, Muhammad Shah. He had chased Muhammad across half Asia, and it always amused the veteran Mongol that the Lion of Islam had died of fright in a fishing boat and had been buried in his shirt for a shroud.
For Subotai, whose name was whispered in terror by Moslem lips from Delhi to Jerusalem, enjoyed a jest. Born in the bleak Gobi desert, he had herded horses through blizzards and hunted tigers afoot in the barrens; the thews of his body were like steel. He could keep the saddle of a horse for three days without dismounting, save to open a vein in his mount and slake his hunger with warm blood. And he who had hunted in childhood the beasts of the northland now hunted down men with keener zest.
He had learned the craft of war from Genghis Khan; he had reined his horse over the battlefields of Cathay, and had coursed a Gur-khan across the Roof of the World. It did not enter his head to wonder why the Mongols had been able to conquer half the world. God ruled supreme in the sky, he knew, and the Kha Khan of the Mongols upon earth.
No more than twenty thousand Mongols were encamped around Subotai's yurta, but these were veteran cavalry, the survivors of twenty campaigns and a hundred battles. Some of their officers were seated on the benches by the yurta entrance—broad-faced, scarred Mongols, regimental commanders, tall princes of Cathay in wadded silks embroidered with the dragon, hawk-eyed nomad chieftains of the steppes.
To one of these Subotai spoke in his deep drawl—
“Il-khan, what thing upon earth can give the utmost pleasure?”
The officer addressed folded his arms, meditated and replied with a Mongol's brevity—
“A fine horse under you, a strong-winged hawk on the wrist and a clear field for the sport.”
With this a Cathayan disagreed courteously—
“O Khan, that is true; yet it is likewise true that the greatest delight is to gaze upon a conquered foe, choosing the fairest of the girls for slaves and harkening to the lamentation of the women.”
“Not so,” Subotai remarked. “It is best to outwit and break the strength of an enemy, as the wind presses down the high grass.”
The Cathayan, who had been overcome in very much that fashion in his day, made response swiftly and boldly, as he had learned to do since he became a warrior of the Horde.
“Subotai may say that, but I, an unworthy servant, am not a Subotai.”
The Eagle, not ill-pleased, fell silent. Seldom did he indulge in such lengthy conversation. He liked praise, but was savagely impatient of deceit. And in the words spoken by this Mongol Orluk rested the fate of nations and the survival of human races—upon the will of this commander of the advance of Genghis Khan.
Subotai had chosen for winter quarters a wide plain that was sheltered on the west and north by lofty mountain ranges. He had provided his men with cattle, with fodder for the horse herds, with captives to serve them. With the first coming of grass he meant to ride to the west, to invade and crush a place called Europe.
His thoughts took another turn. Arms folded on his knees, he glanced at the man who sat nearest him on the carpet by the yurta fire—a dark and wistful Syrian, a physician and sage.
“Rabban Simeon,” he said, “who is the lord of the Christians that dwell under the setting sun?”
The Syrian's knowledge of the unknown world in the west as much as his skill at healing had won him the respect of the Mongols, and he reflected while he chose words to make the matter clear to the leader of the Horde.