One of Ganzorig’s concubines shook Jun awake, helping him out of the bed from amongst the dozen other men and passing him his clothes. Dawn was just breaking. “He’s asking for you,” the slender Asian said. “You can take him his breakfast.” The man handed the half-dressed warrior a plate of warm Khuushuur.
Taking a moment to grumble quietly, Jun finishes dressing and takes the food. The early morning air is crisp, and there is still frost on the blades of grass; he is glad he’s added a fur-lined coat to his clothing. All the non-Chinese concubines are jealous of his silk undergarments, after Jun had let them all try them on, and they had seen how warm the beautiful, soft material is.
Staring resolutely ahead, Jun does his best to ignore the snickers and crude remarks of the warriors who have activities outside their tents, walking briskly to Ganzorig’s tent. Opening the flap, he offers the plate of food to the seated general.
It had been more than a week since Ganzorig’s poisoning, and the general was much stronger now. He was sitting up in bed, drinking a cup of mare’s milk.
The Mongolian general takes the Khuushuur from Jun in the traditional way, supporting his elbow with his left hand. He offered Jun the mare’s milk, smiling.
In his time with his new people, Jun has gotten more used to their food and customs. He accepts the milk, holding his elbow in a similar way. He does a cursory inspection for floating hairs before taking a gulp. Mare’s milk is very sweet, tasting almost of honey, and had made him gag the first few times he had tasted it. He still can’t bring himself to drink airag, but being drunk around these men hardly seems a good idea, anyway. He sits on a heap of fabric at the side of Ganzorig’s bed, leaning against the bed comfortably.
Ganzorig held the dumplings in his big palms, warming his hands with them before eating them. When he was done eating, his hand slid off the side of the bed to squeeze Jun’s muscular upper arm affectionately. His hands were still quite warm.
“I have something for you, little General.”
Making a small grimace of distaste, sure that some grease has been wiped on his clothing, Jun half-turns to look at his master. He is a little wary of what Ganzorig might have to offer him. “Oh?” he asks, politely neutral.
Ganzorig pulled a sheathed sword out from the blankets. It was a little smaller than most Mongolian swords, though not much lighter. He puts it into Jun’s arms. “Only what you asked for.”
Jun laughs softly, pleasantly surprised. Standing, he takes the gift with a small bow. “Thank you,” he murmurs, touched. Stepping back from the bed and unsheathing the blade, Jun executes an intricate dance with the sword, testing its balance and how comfortable it is in his hand. Finished, he ties the sheath around his waist and slides the weapon into it. “Now your concubines will have another reason to be jealous of me…though I doubt most of them would want a sword. Your men will not be concerned?”
“I know that you will never harm me. My men may not understand, but they will not disobey me.” Ganzorig watched Jun handle the sword with pleasure. “If you do not wish to keep the sword in the concubine yurt, you may leave it here.” the General passed Jun the last Khuushuur. “And I have one more thing for you. However, this thing you may only have with me or one of my men with you.”
Taking the greasy dumpling and popping it in his mouth, Jun chews for a moment, then swallows. “How do you know I will never harm you?” he asks, raising an eyebrow thoughtfully. “I do not think the concubines will mind my having a sword, I am not sure why I said that. Perhaps because I was thinking about how much they admire my silks.” Jun frowns slightly; he might, possibly, have guessed what the first present would be. Now, he has no idea. “I understand,” he nods.
“You are a clever man; you know hurting me would end in your death. And you respect the wishes of your Prince, no matter how you disagree with them.” Ganzorig whistles, “Batzorig!” and his horse ventures into the tent, leading a dun mare, attached by a rope around their necks. “Sarangerel.” he says, holding out his hand for the second mare. “She has no rider. She is patient and she will teach you to ride one of our horses.”
Trying to hide his concern—the Mongol horses have, to a one, been cantankerous, stubborn and prone to biting and kicking. Much like their riders, he thinks, suppressing a smile. “Yes,” he agrees, “that is exactly why. Thank you, again. This is a fine gift.” He cautiously approaches the short, stocky horse, offering a hand for the mare to sniff. Horses in his country, even warhorses, are treasured for their even dispositions and loyalty to their riders. Every moment with them is not a test.
Sarangerel sniffed Jun’s palm, snuffling and lipping a bit. She watched the foreigner with dark, intelligent eyes. Batzorig huffed impatiently.
“She has taught children to ride.” Ganzorig chuckled, seeing the concern in Jun’s eyes. “She has been ridden for many years. If you were one of my children, you would have been given a horse at three, and before that, you would have ridden sheep.” he stroked the man’s dark, coarse hair idly.
Smiling at Ganzorig’s mare, Jun unties his new mount, letting Batzorig loose. Holding the rope lightly, Jun strokes Sarangerel’s velvety nose, deciding to ignore Ganzorig’s comments, and the hand on his head. “Thank you,” he repeats, watching the mare closely for signs that she may strike, flee, or bite.
Sarangerel leaned into his hand, guiding it up to her ear and scratching herself on him, rubbing vigorously. Ganzorig laughed.
Momentarily confused—Jun has not had much experience with horses when he is not riding—the young general scratches softly on the mare’s shaggy ear. He slowly works his hand over more of her face, neck and shoulders, his fingers sinking into her thick winter coat. He’s obviously smitten.
Ganzorig smiles as he watches his little General scratch and love the horse. Jun’s people have so little affection for their horses. They’re merely a form of transport to them, whereas for Ganzorig’s people, they’re part of the family. They are a man’s pride, like his children and his wives. Jun had obviously never learned to scratch a horse. It was like not learning how to walk! Ganzorig could hardly fathom it.
“Would you like to ride? I’m well enough.”
Jun quickly assesses Ganzorig—while the larger man is still clearly not fully recovered, he does look better. “Alright,” Jun replies, only a little hesitantly. “Your horse has wandered away, though.”
The big general whistles again and his mare reluctantly presses through the tent flap, ignoring Jun and Sarangerel completely as she goes to rest her nose against Ganzorig’s chest. He pulls himself out of bed –completely naked- using her mane, and guides her to his clothes, neatly laid out for him by one of his wives or concubines. He leans against Batzorig as he dresses.
Jun is a little surprised by Ganzorig’s nakedness, and he delicately glances away while the warlord dresses. “…are you sure you are well enough?” he asks, stroking Sarangerel’s powerful neck. He is not yet aware just how much more comfortable the Mongols are on horseback than on their own two legs.
“Riding will be easier than walking.” Ganzorig explained, “Batzorig will take care of me.” He pulled on his sheepskin coat and pulled himself onto her back. He nudged her and they stepped forward as one. He waited for Jun to mount.
Looking skeptical, Jun watches Ganzorig mount. Indeed, as soon as the warlord is on horseback, he does seem healthier. Jun eyes his mare’s complete lack of tack, knowing there is no way he could control a horse the way Ganzorig is.
Ganzorig takes a moment to realize what Jun needs. “There’s a bridle by the door.” he pointed to a pile of what looked like random scraps of leather.
Quite perplexed, Jun stares at the heap of leather strings roughly knotted together. Picking up the tangle, he turns it this way and that, trying to figure out how it is supposed to work. Periodically, Sarangerel nudges him, trying to help. Increasingly frustrated and not wanting to look foolish or ignorant, Jun begins undoing knots to start fresh with a length of leather.
Ganzorig chuckled, offering a hand to take the bridle. He quickly sorts it out, putting it on Sarangerel’s face and patting her cheek. He gives the reins to Jun. “You can practice when we get back.” Batzorig walked forward and left the tent.
Sarangerel gives a horsy sigh, tossing her head as if noting how silly her new rider is.
Laughing softly at himself, Jun is now faced with the problem of mounting without the aid of stirrups. Although the mare is short, Jun is none too tall himself. Finally, he leads Sarangerel to the bed, positioning the mare beside it. Standing on the bed, he’s able to scramble onto the willing horse’s back. Tugging the reins, he turns her toward the tent’s flap, ducking against her neck as she pushes through and they rejoin Ganzorig and Batzorig.
Ganzorig smiles at his little concubine. Batzorig took off through the camp at a trot, weaving through tents, men, fires, horses and livestock.
Jun soon gives up trying to control his mount, noticing that she is mostly following Batzorig, anyway. Sarangerel seems to have decided her rider is some sort of hopeless imbecile who needs to be cared for. Jun is surprised by the size of the camp; it is even larger than he would have guessed. He settles back and enjoys the ride, laughing as Batzorig stops to bite or nuzzle several enemy or friend horses as she passes, quite unhindered by Ganzorig, who is doing much the same with people he sees. In fact, Ganzorig seems to be allowing his mount to choose their speed and direction, with very little input. It is a very strange style of riding to Jun.
Once they’re free of the camp, Batzorig pauses unwillingly to wait for Jun and Sarangerel. Ganzorig looks back to Jun. “Is she taking care of you?” he chuckled.
Frowning a little at Ganzorig’s patronizing tone, Jun cannot help but smile back. “Yes, I think she is,” he admits, patting the mare’s sturdy neck. He stares out across the vast steppe, imagining riding and riding until he is home again. With a sigh, he turns Sarangerel to face a different direction.
Ganzorig pushes Batzorig to move and she takes off at a canter across the wide-open grassland. He enjoys being out of his tent. He finds staying inside stifling. Being on horseback feels much more like home.
Jun cannot help but smile as he watches Ganzorig ride; the warlord’s delight at being mounted is clear as he bounces along on Sarangerel’s back after the other rider, allowing his mare to guide them.
They rode together for perhaps an hour before Ganzorig slowed Batzorig so the horses were side by side.
“What do you miss most?”
Surprised, Jun relaxes his grip on the reins (making Sarangerel snort appreciatively). “About home, you mean?”
“Yes. Your city. Your people.” Ganzorig kept his eyes on the horizon as he asked, stroking Batzorig’s mane.
“I…I do not know. The food, perhaps,” Jun says, trying to sound frivolous and not show how much the question had rattled him. He turns to face the horizon, as well. “What about you? Why are you attacking my country? You do not seem to care about gold or worldly possessions, you have told me that yourself. What do you hope to gain?”
“All the men in this camp come from different tribes. Did you know that? We fought, killed each other and were paid to do so by your people. Under me, my people fight under one banner. We’re one people. Before me, it was centuries of your people pitting my people against each other.” Ganzorig said, eyes dark. “That’s why I burn the cities and wipe the land clean of them. I want there to be no memory of them when I am through.”
Unable to think of a response to this, Jun sits quietly on his horse for some time. "Then why keep me?" he asks.
"Though I despise what your people have done to mine, I still find you beautiful." Ganzorig looked Jun up and down.
Blushing a little under the warlord's penetrating gaze, Jun digs his heels into his mare's sides, urging her faster. He needs to move, to think on what Ganzorig has said. He is aware that his people have been keeping the Mongols under control, but he had always thought of them as primitive savages, who needed benevolent guidance to not overrun the world. He had never seen them as people.
Ganzorig allowed Jun to ride ahead, slowing Batzorig's urge to race the other mare and patting her. He kept pace behind Jun quietly.
Finally, Jun reins in his mare, halting and waiting for Ganzorig to catch up with them. "I cannot say that I disagree with my people's ways, because they are still my people...but I can see why you would be angry." Turning to face the massive camp, with fires just beginning to glow in the twilight, he murmurs, "and this is very impressive."
"Impressive? The camp, or what we've done?" Ganzorig stopped his mare right next to Jun's. Batzorig took this opportunity to bite Sarangerel's neck.
"Both. There are not many men who could bring such fierce people together under one banner." Jun is forced to grab his mare's mane as Sarangerel dances sideways to avoid Batzorig's teeth.
Ganzorig nods, watching the campfires with Jun silently. After a moment, he asks, "Are you ready to ride back?"
Jun nods, deep in thought.
They let the horses canter back. They both know where they're going and soon they find themselves weaving through the camp, noisy and busy with all the men eating, drinking and talking. The horses stop outside Ganzorig's tent and the warlord dismounts.
A moment later, Jun slides off Sarangerel, with rather less grace than Ganzorig. He is quite sore, being unused to riding without a saddle, and a little out of the practice of riding at all.
"Where would you rather sleep?" Ganzorig asks him.
Jun considers the question for a moment, then looks at the ground. "With you," he admits. "The concubines never let me sleep," he adds quickly.
"Even though I snore?" Ganzorig laughed.
"As long as I fall asleep before you, it is not a problem. What do we do with the horses?"
"Let them loose. They'll graze with the herd." Ganzorig patted Batzorig on her flank, sending her off. He lifted the tent flap for Jun.
Sarangerel follows Batzorig, playfully kicking up her heels at the other mare, as the two horses trot off to join their friends.
Jun ducks under the flap, breathing in the deep, rich smells of the tent: fabric, leather, sweat, horse, tea, smoke...he certainly has fewer responsibilities here, he reflects.
Ganzorig followed Jun into the tent, going back to his bed and sitting on the edge, unbuttoning his long lambskin coat.
Placing the complicated skein of leather that makes up Sarangerel's bridle back where he had found it, Jun sits lightly on the edge of the bed, some distance from Ganzorig.
Ganzorig pulled off his coat, leaving it on the edge of his bed. "I did have one more thing for you."
Laughing softly, Jun turns to the warlord. "Is this some sort of festival?" he asks.
"We had a very good battle a few weeks ago. I meant to give it to you earlier." he dug through the furs on his bed (where he seemed to keep everything) and came up with a round black bottle. He handed it to Jun.
Jun takes the bottle, reading the graceful Chinese characters on the side. "Rice wine! Thank you." The young general had not been aware that Ganzorig had noticed his distaste for airag. He tries not to think about where the warlord had gotten the drink.
Ganzorig grinned, clapping him on the back. "Now you'll have something to drink besides mare's milk."
Jun gasps a little at the force of Ganzorig's hand on his back, but he smiles back at the warlord. "Do you treat all of your...I mean, your concubines...this well?" Jun has tried very hard to make it clear that he is separate from the concubines.
"I bring things back often." he laughed, "Why did you think their tent was so lavish?" He didn't mind if Jun thought of himself as something other than a concubine. He certainly was different than those weak, slender men.
"True." After a moment's consideration, Jun fixes Ganzorig with a careful stare. "What is the price of these gifts?"
"You're already paying the price." Ganzorig assured him, fingers weaving into Jun's coarse hair. For some reason, the man's hair delighted him.
"Yes, I suppose I am," Jun says, wryly. However, he has to admit that the hand in his hair does feel good, and he closes his eyes, leaning into Ganzorig's hand. Just a little.
Ganzorig leaned in closer, kissing Jun's ear.
Jun tenses, but leans against Ganzorig's side to steady himself.
"Dinner." Ganzorig murmured.
"My ear?" Jun murmurs, confused. His mind is feeling a little foggy from the pleasant sensation of Ganzorig's warm, wet mouth.
Ganzorig chuckled. "You can make Khuushuur now, can't you?"
"Ahh...oh, yes. The concubines taught me."
"Make some for me."
(then we went and made Khuushuur, which are delicious. You should all eat them. Eat them now!!)
