‘He learned quickly what it means to command, lord, to have every man look to you alone for strength. My poet has many verses about Jochi and the men speak well of the khan’s son. He can lead. I have no greater praise.’

Genghis glanced over to where Jochi was laughing with Ogedai. Together, they looked younger, more like the boys who had grown in his ger. He nodded grudgingly, but when he spoke again, Tsubodai’s hopes fell.

‘Bad blood may come to the surface at any time, general. In a charge, or a battle, he could turn. Be careful not to risk your life on that one.’

Tsubodai could not contradict the khan without giving insult, though he burned to speak against the unfairness. In the end, his struggle remained internal and he bowed his head.

‘Jelme and Chagatai are only three days away,’ Genghis said, his expression lightening. ‘You will see a son of mine then, Tsubodai, and know why I am proud of him. We will light the land with lamps and eat and drink enough so that men will talk of it for years.’

‘As you say, lord,’ Tsubodai replied, hiding his distress. Over three years, he had seen Jochi grow into a fine man, one capable of leading armies. Tsubodai had seen no weaknesses in him and he knew he was a good judge of men. As he followed the khan’s gaze to his oldest son, Tsubodai grieved for the hurt Jochi must feel. No man should ever be rejected by his father. If Jochi had every other general at his feet and the scorn of Genghis, he would feel only the scorn. As Genghis turned away with Khasar and Kachiun, Tsubodai shook his head slightly before he reasserted the cold face and joined the other men in preparing for the feast. Jelme and Chagatai were coming and Tsubodai did not look forward to seeing Genghis praise his second son over the first.

Something wrenched Jelme from a deep sleep. In complete darkness, he sat up, listening intently. The smoke hole in his ger was covered and his eyes could not adjust to the lack of light. At his side, a Chin woman stirred and he reached out to touch her face.

‘Be quiet,’ he whispered. He knew the sounds of the camp: the whickering of ponies, the laughter or weeping in the night that eased him into sleep. He knew the sounds of his people and the slightest change in them. Like a wild dog, some part of him never fully slept. He was too much of an old hand to dismiss the prickling sense of danger as a bad dream. In silence, he threw back his furs and stood bare-chested, wearing just an old pair of leggings.

It was low and distant, but the sound of a scout’s horn was unmistakable. As the note died away, Jelme grabbed for a sword hanging from the central pole. He pulled on soft boots, threw a heavy coat over his shoulders and ducked out into the night.

The camp was already waking around him, warriors mounting with murmurs and clicks to their animals. They were barely a day’s ride from Genghis and Jelme had no idea who could be mad enough to risk the legs of precious horses in the dark. One marmot hole in the wrong place and a foreleg could snap. Jelme could not imagine an enemy on the empty plains, not one who would dare to attack him. Still, he would make ready. He would not be surprised in his own camp.

Chagatai came running across the black grass, his stumbling gait showing the quantity of airag he had put away that evening. The young man winced as lamps were lit around Jelme’s ger, but the general had no sympathy. A warrior should always be ready to ride and he ignored the sallow features of Genghis’ son.

‘Take a hundred men, Chagatai,’ he snapped, his strain showing. ‘Scout around for an enemy, anything. Someone is out tonight.’

The young prince moved away quickly, already whistling for his sub-officers. Jelme drew men in, organising them without hesitation. The scouts had given him time and he did not waste it. Ranks coalesced in the blackness and the night was suddenly noisy as every man, woman and child prepared weapons or stowed supplies and bound up carts. Heavily armed guards ran in pairs through the camp, looking for attackers or thieves.

Jelme sat at the centre of the storm, sensing the swirl of movement all around him. There were no cries of alarm, not yet, though he heard the distant scout’s horn sound once more. In the flickering, hissing light of mutton-fat lamps, his servants brought his favourite gelding and he took the full quiver handed up to him.

By the time Jelme trotted out into the darkness, his army was alert and ready. The first five thousand warriors rode with him, a force of blooded men, well practised in battle. No one liked to fight in the dark and if they had to charge, men and horses would be killed. Jelme clenched his jaw against the cold, feeling it for the first time since he had woken.

Genghis galloped in the darkness, blind drunk and so light he felt the stirrups served a purpose in preventing him from floating away. As tradition demanded, he had begun each skin of airag by flicking a few drops for the spirits that guarded his people. He had spat more over the feast fires, so that the flash sent him reeling in sweet smoke. Despite all that, a fair amount had reached his throat and he had lost count of the skins he had thrown down.

The feast had begun two days before. Genghis had welcomed his returning sons and generals formally, honouring them all before the people. Even Jochi’s constant glower had softened as great platters of meat from the hunt were served. Khasar and Ogedai too had fallen on the best cuts with a cry of pleasure. They had eaten many strange things in the years away, but no one in Koryo or Chin lands could have brought a platter of green earth mutton to the groaning tables. That meat had been buried the previous winter and brought out whole for the return of the generals. Khasar’s eyes had filled with tears, though he claimed it was the bitterness of the rotted meat rather than nostalgia for the rare delicacy. No one believed him, but it did not matter.

The feast had built to a climax of noise and debauchery. The strongest warriors prowled through the gers, looking for women. Those of the people were safe, but Chin slaves or captured Russian women were fair game. Their cries were loud in the night, almost drowned by the drums and horns around the fires.

Poems had begun that would take a full day to finish. Some were sung in the ancient style of two tones from the same throat. Others were spoken aloud, competing in the chaos for any who would listen. The fires around Genghis grew more crowded as the first night wore into dawn.

Khasar had not slept even then, Genghis thought, looking for his brother’s shadow in the dark. As the second day came to an end, Genghis had seen how the poets kept back their ballads for Arslan, waiting on the general’s son. It had been then that Genghis refilled Arslan’s cup with his own hand.

‘Chagatai and Jelme are just a short ride from here, Arslan,’ he had said over the twang and screech of wind and string. ‘Will you come with me to meet our sons?’

Arslan had smiled drunkenly, nodding.

‘I will take the poets to them to hear the tales of you, old man,’ Genghis told him, slurring his words. It was a grand idea and, with a warm feeling, he summoned his council of generals to him. Tsubodai and Jochi called for horses as Khasar and Ogedai came staggering up. Ogedai had looked a little green and Genghis had ignored the sour smell of vomit around his son.

It was Kachiun who had brought the khan’s grey mare, a fine animal.

‘This is madness, brother!’ Kachiun called to him cheerfully. ‘Who rides fast at night? Someone will go down.’

Genghis gestured at the darkness and then his companions.

‘We are not afraid!’ he had declared, the drunken men around him cheering the sentiment. ‘I have my family and my generals. I have the swordsmith Arslan and Tsubodai the Valiant. Let the ground fear us if we fall. We will crack it open with our hard heads! Are you ready?’