The Silk Road Saga: Part I - Silkworm

42 - The Golden Tent

They were doomed and there was nothing he could do about it. He had seen the looks that they had been sharing, oscillating between disdain and longing, all the tell-tale signs of young love. He knew that it would be hopeless to try and give Yue any advice. Yue would only ignore it the same way he'd ignored his old man when he told him that marrying an artist wouldn't advance his career. That he needed someone who could host and flirt and say the right thing to the right people, a charmer who could help him get ahead. But he hadn't wanted a charmer, he'd wanted somebody who was broody and soulful, someone who listened to illicit French records smuggled in from Hong Kong.

Oh yes, Yue and Erhi were doomed, there was no doubt about it. But he'd made himself a promise the morning that Yue had disappeared, he'd told himself that if he was ever reunited with Yue then he wouldn't try to change him, wouldn't try to force him to be someone he was not. Making mistakes was part of growing up, the only difference now was that it was looking increasingly likely that Yue's mistake was going to get them both killed.

The main street of Samarkand was lined with kneeling captives. Merchants knelt next to soldiers, peasants were side-by-side with courtiers. No one spoke. The threat of death sowed shut their lips. Even the Mongols were quiet, expectantly awaiting the arrival of their Khan. Erhi followed the tall Mongol in the golden mask, her feet skipping across the cobblestones with skittish excitement. Yue dragged himself along in her wake, weighed down by his decision to stay. For his part Yuan was alert. He remembered the Chinese faces he had seen hidden in a shadowy doorway. Mr J and his men were out there somewhere, hiding in the city, waiting for their moment to strike. If his son cared about this girl, then he would do everything in his power to protect them both.

In the distance the sun gleamed off a golden rooftop. It took a moment for Yuan to realise that the roof was on move, rolling through the broken gates of Samarkand. He had read about this golden tent, the home of the Great Khan whenever he left Mongolia. It was both a mobile palace and a war room, containing all the luxuries needed to keep Genghis entertained while on campaign and all the necessities needed to organise world conquest. In front of the golden tent rode a troop of fierce looking imperial bodyguards, known as the Kheshig or blessed ones, talented fighters who were tasked with protecting the Great Khan's life. A dozen muscular oxen strained against harnesses inlaid with gold leaf. No slave was worthy enough to pull the Great Khan, only animals, blessed by a steppe shaman, were trusted with this task.

A few captives tried to beg for their lives, crying out for clemency. Such temerity guaranteed a swift and brutal end. Throats were cut. Corpses were left were they lay. The other slaves cowered lower to the ground, trying to make themselves invisible. Erhi didn't seem to notice the suffering, her eyes were locked on the golden tent, her smile reflected its brilliant shine. Meanwhile, Yue gingerly stepped over dead bodies and looked down at the captives with tender pity. Yuan sighed, yes, there was going to be trouble before the day was done.

As they drew closer to the tent, the Kheshig encircled their small party, drawing their bows and aiming them squarely at their heads. Even the general with the golden mask was given the same treatment. He seemed non-plussed. Clearly such precautions were necessary when you were the world's most powerful man. The commander of the imperial bodyguard shouted in Mongolian and the general with the golden mask took a knee. All the other Mongols did the same. The captives were forced to prostrate themselves on the ground, their face pressed into the cobblestones. The rustle of curtains being pulled aside heralded the arrival of the Great Khan and Yuan risked a glance from beneath his bowed head.

The destroyer of worlds emerged from out of the shadows of his tent and the first thing that struck Yuan was his height. He was short but then again everyone was short eight hundred years ago. His clothes were plain, in contrast to the gold of his tent. His face was stern and craggy, like a wind-swept cliff and his eyes were dark and unfathomable, like two oil wells. He had an unmistakable air of power. Yuan had come across the same aura only a few times in his life, albeit in much smaller doses, when members of the politburo had visited his railway for a photograph. The power of life and death lay at his fingertips. This city lay in ruins because he had wanted it so. Thousands of people could die at the click of a finger. Such power corrupted some men, making them vain and inconsequential, men like the Shah of Samarkand. A rare few, however, learnt how to harness such terrible power. They made it there's and there's alone. Such men were few and far between but Genghis Khan was undoubtedly such a man. He exuded power from every pore of his being, it was relentless, crushing almost, like the pressure that came before a storm.

The Great Khan and the golden faced general exchanged a few words. The general pointed to Erhi and trembling, she rose to her feet, tottered forwards and unfurled the flag she had captured from the citadel. The Great Khan beckoned her closer and she mounted the steps that led up towards the golden tent, her head held high. Yuan could see why his son had fallen in love. She was brave and headstrong, proud and ambitious. She was not the type to make polite conversation to help her husband's career, she was the type that stormed city walls and demanded the respect that was owed to her.

There was a flurry of movement in the crowd. Yuan tensed. Something felt wrong. He heard a soft crump and the bodyguard nearest to him slid off his horse and fell to the ground. He knew that sound, the shot of a silenced pistol. The other bodyguards were instantly alert, aware that they were under attack but unable to identify their attackers. There was a quiet pop followed by another bodyguard falling off their horse.

"Yue, help Erhi. They're here" shouted Yuan.

His son didn't need to be told twice. Yue ran straight past the golden faced general, up the steps and pulled Erhi along with the Great Khan inside the tent. The imperial bodyguards began to drop like flies, toppling off their horses as they were picked off one by one with methodical accuracy. They must be shooting from one of the windows, thought Yuan, using their height to their advantage. He imagined that the first shot was intended for Genghis but shooting from range with a silenced pistol was famously difficult. The AIU had sacrificed accuracy for stealth.

Still, their plan seemed to be working. As the assembled army watched the famous imperial bodyguard die from some unseen enemy, they found their courage wavering. To them it must have seemed like magic or a curse from the gods. Men died without being touched as blood poured forth from minute holes in their heads. The Khwarezmids invoked Allah, the Mongols Tengri, but soon both conquerors and conquered were taking their lives into their own hands. There was a rush to flee the city that only an hour beforehand had been so bitterly fought over. The hidden assassins picked off men as they fled, turning a panic into a rout as everyone struggled to flee the hand of fate.

Yuan decided to play dead. He flopped down to the ground and hauled himself under a corpse, obscuring himself from view. He spotted a golden mask lying in the gutter, its forehead dented and spattered with blood. This was it. The faint smell of cordite wafted across the street. A few riderless horses milled around in front of the tent but apart from that everything was quiet. Yuan waited for the assassins to reveal themselves.