The woman at the cook-pot, a straggle-haired crone who had lost most of her teeth, looked me over and laughed. “The clothes are too small. And you’ll never find boots big enough for those feet.”

The guard grunted. “That’s his problem, not mine.”

It was true. I was taller and broader than any of the Asians I had seen so far. The trousers he had given me had obviously belonged to a fat man; they were more than wide enough, but they ended halfway between my knees and ankles. I agreed with the old woman; there were probably no boots in the camp big enough to fit me. I did not care, though. I had sandals, and my new clothes were warm enough to make me feel almost comfortable, despite the itching, crawling feeling that I was not the only one living in them. Too, the crone’s stew had warmed me. I was ready to face the Khan.

For more than an hour I was passed from one set of guards to another, questioned briefly by each new officer, and then sent on. The encampment, I was beginning to realize, was actually two separate camps, one within the other. In the center of the big, sprawling city of warriors and horses and camp followers was the true encampment of the Mongol leader. The ordu, as they called it, was a tent city within the larger camp where the staff officers and royal guard were quartered. And at the center of the ordu, in a huge tent of white silk decked with banners and lit by huge bonfires, was the tent of the Orkhon.

By the time I approached this magnificent central tent, I was flanked by two battle-hardened officers who wore as much gold as steel on their uniforms. A half-dozen warriors marched behind me. We passed between the two big bonfires that blazed into the dark sky as we neared the main entrance to the white tent. I learned later that all strangers are made to walk between those fires, on the superstition that the heat will burn out any devils that the stranger may harbor within him.

We were stopped at the entrance to the tent, where two of the biggest guards I had seen searched me swiftly and perfunctorily for weapons. These men were almost my height, but were still as lean and wiry as the other Mongols. Men who live in the saddle and cross deserts and mountains on their way to battle do not have the time to get fat.

Finally I was ushered inside the tent. I had expected oriental splendor, fine silks and Persian carpets, wine goblets of gold encrusted with jewels, and beautiful slave girls dancing for the conqueror of the world. Strangely, the Orkhon’ was indeed sitting on a magnificent carpet. The tent was hung with silks and brocades. The men gathered there were drinking from goblets heavy with precious stones. Four women sat at the left of the Orkhon, each of them young and slim and, I suppose, beautiful in the eyes of the Mongols. But the impression that all this gave me was not one of sybaritic magnificence; the tent had the look of pragmatic utility to it. The carpets and hangings kept out the cold. The golden cups the men drank from were booty from their battles; it seemed to me that they were just as accustomed to drinking from leather canteens. The women — well, they too were the spoils of battle.

There was no air of decadence about the Orkhon’s court. These were warriors, temporarily at rest. They had sacked and burned a city this day; tomorrow they would be on the march again, heading for the next city.

“You are called Orion?” said a tall, slim Oriental who stood at the Orkhon’s right hand. He looked more Chinese than Mongol, and he wore a silk robe that covered him from neck to foot.

The officer at my side gave me a slight nudge. I took a step forward. “I am Orion,” I said.

“Come forward so that my lord Hulagu may see thee more closely.”

I walked slowly toward the Orkhon, who sat calmly on the silks and cushions that were his by right of conquest. He was a small man, even shorter than most of the others. His long hair was still jet black, and his body was just as slim and hard as any warrior’s. I judged him to be no more than thirty-five years old. His face was utterly impassive, expressionless, his eyes fixed on me as I approached.

The Chinese raised one hand slightly and I stopped.

“You are an emissary from the West?” he asked, his voice still slightly sing-song, even though he spoke in the Mongol language.

“That is true,” I answered.

“From where in the West?” asked the Mongol seated next to the Orkhon. He was older, graying, but even sitting upon the silken cushions, he vibrated eagerness and restless energy.

“From far beyond the western mountains,” I said, “and beyond the seas that are beyond the mountains.”

“From the land where the earth is black and crops grow as thick as the hairs of your head?” he asked, his eyes gleaming.

I guessed that he meant the Ukraine, the black-earth granary of what would someday be Russia.

“From beyond even there, my lord,” I replied, thinking of space and time. “I come from a land that is as distant from this place as we are distant from Karakorum. Much, much farther.”

The Mongol smiled. Distance meant nothing to him. “Tell us of your distant land,” he said.

But the Orkhon interrupted. “Enough talk of distant lands, Subotai. The report says that this man is a warrior of incredible strength.”

Subotai. That was the name of a Mongol general, I recalled. But the name that the Chinese gave for the Orkhon, Hulagu, I did not recognize.

The energetic little general looked me up and down. “He is a big one. But we were told he claims to be an emissary, not a warrior.”

“Still,” said Hulagu, “the report is that he bested a mounted warrior while he himself was afoot and weaponless. And then he caught an arrow in his bare hands when the tuman tried to kill him.”

As usual, the report of my prowess had been exaggerated. But Hulagu was obviously impressed and looking forward to a demonstration. He ordered a bowman to stand across the tent from me. The other warriors and officers cleared away from the area behind me.

“My lord,” I protested, “I did not catch an arrow in my bare hands, I merely deflected…”

“Deflect it, then,” said Hulagu. And he nodded to the bowman. The arrow sprang from the bowstring and my reflexes went into overdrive. The world around me slowed and I could see the arrow, flexing almost like a dolphin dipping in and out of the water, as it flew languidly toward me. I knew the kinetic energy it carried, and that attempting to catch it would be folly. So I stepped slightly to one side when it reached me and slapped it away with the edge of my hand against its shaft.

The Mongols gasped. Subotai half rose from the cushions he sat upon. Hulagu managed a slight smile.

Next he ordered a wrestler, a huge brute of a man with shaved head and oiled body. I stripped to the waist and took off my sandals, then chopped the monster down with a kick that took out his left knee and a karate blow to the back of his neck.

I bowed to Hulagu. “Truly, my lord, I am an ambassador, not a warrior. I fight only to protect myself.”

The Orkhon did not seem pleased. “I have never seen any man, warrior or not, possess the strength and speed that you have shown.”

“A race of such men,” said Subotai gravely, “would be a formidable enemy.”

The other Mongols were muttering among themselves; they appeared to agree with the general.

“I am merely an emissary from a far-distant land,” I said, raising my voice to still their hubbub. “I seek your ruler, Genghis Khan.”

That stopped everything. The entire tent was instantly silent. Hulagu glared at me angrily.

“He is a stranger among us,” Subotai said to the Orkhon. “He does not know that we do not speak the name of the High Khan.”

“My grandfather has been dead for more years than the fingers of both my hands,” said Hulagu slowly, menacingly. “Ogotai now rules at Karakorum.”