As Kokchu sank back to his place, musicians cracked out rhythms across the camp, as if released. The thump of sticks blurred and wailing notes mingled and turned around each other, calling back and forth across the flames. Men and women pounded out songs and poems in the firelight, dancing until sweat spattered off them. Those who had come in with Jelme were pleased to honour the great khan.

The fire’s heat was strong on Jochi’s face, licking out from a heart of orange embers and strange paths to the core. As he sat, Jochi stared at his father’s generals and met Kachiun’s eyes for an instant before sliding away. Even in that brief contact, there had been some communication. Jochi did not look back, knowing that Kachiun would be watching him with sharp interest. The eyes showed the soul and they were always hardest to mask.

When Chagatai rode in, it was to the yelling accompaniment of his jagun of warriors. Jelme was pleased to see Chagatai’s drunken stupor had vanished with a bit of fast riding. Genghis’ second son looked vital and strong as he jumped down over the horse’s shoulder.

Genghis rose to greet him and the warriors shouted in appreciation as the father took his son’s arm and pounded him on the back.

‘You have grown tall, boy,’ Genghis said. His eyes were glassy from drink and his face was mottled and puffy. Chagatai bowed deeply to his father, the model of a perfect son.

Chagatai maintained a cool manner as he gripped hands and clapped shoulders with his father’s men. To Jochi’s slow-burning irritation, his brother walked well, his back straight and white teeth flashing as he laughed and smiled. At fifteen, his skin was barely scarred beyond the wrists and forearms and unmarked by disease. Genghis looked upon him with visible pride. When Jochi saw Chagatai welcomed to a seat close to Genghis, he was glad that the great fire hid his flush of anger. Chagatai had glanced at Jochi for an instant of cold recognition. He had not bothered to find words for his older brother, even after three years. Jochi’s face remained calm, but it was astonishing how anger sprang in him from just that glance. For a few heartbeats, he wanted nothing more than to stride through the drunken fools and strike Chagatai to the ground. He could feel his own strength swell in his shoulders as he imagined the blow. Yet he had learned patience with Tsubodai. As Genghis filled Chagatai’s cup, Jochi sat and dreamed of murder, smiling with all the rest.

As dawn came, Tsubodai’s poet was in the middle of telling the tale of the Badger’s Mouth, where Arslan had fought the largest army ever seen by any of the people. With Genghis and the generals watching, the poet was more honest than usual as he told Arslan’s exploits. They had all done well in that mountain pass before Yenking. Each man recalled those bloody days, with pride and awe mingling with the wine in their blood. No one else would ever understand what it had meant to stand together there against the Chin empire – and see it humbled. The Badger’s Mouth had been the womb that shoved them out into a new world: stronger and more dangerous. They had gone east and Yenking had burned.

The rising sun brought sight of thousands of riders streaming across the land from the camp by the Orkhon river, many with women and children on the saddles. Genghis was the khan and could ride where he wished, but they all wanted to hear the stories of Arslan. As the morning sun rose in the sky, poems and tales were declaimed from a hundred throats, over and over until the poets and shamans were hoarse.

Even Genghis had not realised so many would want to hear of the early days, but his people sat rapt for the performances, including those who were drinking heavily and stuffing their faces with greasy mutton and goat meat. He heard again how Arslan had rescued him from a pit and he blinked in painful memory at names he had not recalled for years. Arslan had been the first man to take an oath to him, to promise horses, gers, salt and blood, when Genghis had nothing but his mother and sister, a few wild brothers and starvation as his companions. It had been an immense act of trust and Genghis found himself reminded and moved once more by the changes Arslan had wrought and witnessed. That was the purpose of the truth-telling of a man’s life, that all those who heard would remember what he had meant to them and what he had accomplished as he flung the years.

The recitals broke off for the storytellers to rest their throats in preparation for the evening performances. By then it was clear that the entire Mongol nation would drift into that place.

It was not where Genghis had intended to honour his first general. The river was too far away, the grazing was sparse and the ground itself was rocky and dry. Yet it was that lack of permanence that made him grunt in satisfaction as he peed into the earth. His people should not become used to comfort, he told himself blearily. Their hard lives kept them stronger than those who lived in cities.

His thoughts were interrupted by shouts and cheers nearby. Warriors seemed to be clustering around one spot like a swarm of bees. As Genghis blinked, he saw Chagatai climb a cart to address them. Genghis frowned as another sound stilled the crowd, a yowling, coughing roar that made the hairs on his neck bristle. Genghis dropped his hand to his sword hilt as he strode through his people, letting them fall back before him rather than touch the khan and lose a hand or a head.

His generals had gathered around an iron cage on the cart, but Genghis did not look at them, nor at Chagatai, who stood like a proud owner. The animal behind the bars was larger than any great cat he had ever seen. Genghis could only shake his head in amazement, closing one eye against the ache from his broken tooth and a throbbing headache. To numb the pain, he gestured for more airag and scored his throat with a line of it. Even then, his eyes did not leave the beast that prowled back and forth, showing its curved white teeth in a display of anger. He had heard of the orange and black striped tiger, but to see its jaws and hear the thump of its tail as it padded back and forth in the cage set his own heart beating quickly. There was a challenge in its yellow eyes that raked the awed crowd.

‘Is it not a gift for a khan?’ Chagatai said.

Genghis merely glanced at him, but Chagatai lost some of his cockiness in that warning. The crowd around them had fallen silent as they waited for the khan’s reaction. Jelme was visibly uncomfortable and Genghis nodded to him in appreciation.

‘I have never seen such an animal, general. How did you capture him?’

‘The tiger is a gift to you, lord, from the king of Koryo. It was raised from a cub, but they cannot be tamed. I am told it will run down even a man on a horse and kill both the mount and the rider.’

Genghis stood very close to the bars, staring into the tiger’s eyes. As they met his, the animal moved without warning, its weight rocking the cage as it hit the bars. Genghis was too drunk to dodge and felt a tearing impact on his arm as a paw lunged at him. He looked in dim surprise at the blood on his torn sleeve. A single claw had caught him and gashed his flesh deeply.

‘So fast…’ he said in wonder. ‘I have seen slower snakes. And at such a size! I can believe the tale of it killing a man and his horse. Those jaws could break a skull.’ He swayed slightly as he spoke, but no one there mentioned the wound in case it shamed the khan.

‘In Koryo, there are warriors who hunt the tigers,’ Chagatai said more humbly, ‘though they work in groups and use bows, spears and nets.’ Chagatai’s gaze fell on Jochi as he spoke and his expression became thoughtful. His older brother was as fascinated by the beast as Genghis himself and stood too close to the bars.