Daughter of Xanadu (13 page)

He nodded. “Emmajin Beki, I did not mean to offend you.”

I kept silent. We were ending the conversation where we had begun it, with an apology.

After our walk in the grasslands, I was more confused than ever. Marco was funny and fun to be with. But his worldview and values could not have been more different from mine. Although we were not at war with this man or his homeland, clearly he and I were not on the same side. He claimed to want to serve the Khan, but when he spoke honestly, I could see he was not loyal at all. Our interests would always be in conflict.

That night, I had a vivid dream. In it, a huge army of strangers was galloping toward my house, threatening to kill everyone I knew. Before they arrived, I woke up, my heart pounding and my body covered in sweat.

“I
gnorant child!” Chimkin spoke his mind.

My tall, thin uncle sat on a wide, throne-like chair raised several steps above the floor in his own chambers, as if practicing for the day when he would be Great Khan.

It had been hard to decide what to report to my uncle. I told him of the mounted warriors, how they practiced skills by jousting. Of course I had not mentioned courtly love. But I did tell him that the people of Christendom feared our Mongol army, that the little kingdoms fought each other, and that I had told Marco Polo that those countries would be better off as part of our Empire. That didn’t sound ignorant to me.

“You might as well have said we were raising an army to invade his homeland.”

Were we raising an army to invade Marco’s homeland? I dared not ask.

He sighed. “You have much to learn about gathering intelligence. We are looking for the chink in their armor, the best way to take advantage of their weakness.”

Uncle Chimkin might as well have been speaking Latin. What was I to look for? He seemed impatient and angry with me, as well as the foreigners at court.

“Emmajin Beki.” His voice was calmer now. “I have told the Great Khan that you have provided some useful information, and that you are learning Latin. Suren has asked me to take you with me on my next military venture. I can only do that if you do well.”

My heart rose. Did he mean as a warrior?

“The Khan has entrusted me with the task of pacifying the West. His attention now is on the South, on the conquest of China. Once that is completed, I plan to convince him to send several divisions to the West. Working with our fellow Mongols in Russia and Persia, it should be an easy romp to conquer the rest of the Western lands.”

My heart clenched. “Including Christendom?”

“Yes. Suren and Temur are learning other languages from that part of the world. I am watching all of you, to see whether you might prove useful to me.”

My thoughts tumbled on top of each other. Perhaps there was hope after all. In spite of his judgment that I was an ignorant child, my uncle thought I could play a role of some sort in the army. He was not talking about making me a soldier, but to travel with the army! With Suren! It seemed too good to be true.

Yet how could I take part in the conquest of Christendom, and join a military horde thundering toward Venezia?
Now that I knew Marco, I had begun to question my long-held beliefs.

“I would be honored,” I said, bowing my head slightly, to show humility and obedience. What could I do to win his favor?

“Continue with your work. Learn the foreigner’s language. Hide your opinions and feelings. Get him to trust you. If he becomes suspicious, he will stop talking to you.” I nodded and he continued. “Act friendly, but do not take his side or help him. Probe for that crucial piece of information, the chink in their armor.”

“Yes, Uncle.”

“Above all, never mention anything about plans to invade his homeland. The Great Khan has not made any final decision.”

“I will do as you say,” I replied. I left his chambers full of hope and confusion.

Marco was charming and witty, a good friend if not more. He had all but declared his love for me. I knew he was only partly teasing. One word from me, and it could be more than jest. Somehow, he had managed to declare his heart without making me feel awkward or threatened. My feelings for him were jumbled, but I was flattered.

Now my own heart’s desire seemed within reach. Chimkin might be willing to intervene with the Khan and let me join the army. Yet at what price? I had dreamed of galloping off with the army. But Marco’s words had put doubts in my mind. How would I feel riding off to the West to conquer Marco’s homeland? All his talk of peace kept repeating in my head.

What an impossible situation! I had always been loyal to my Khan and my people, but now that loyalty required me to make an enemy of a man who was gradually becoming my friend.

The next time I went to Marco’s
ger
, a few days later, he was not alone. Standing with him were two older men, also Latins.

Marco looked uneasy. “Princess Emmajin. Let me introduce you to my father, Niccolo Polo, and my uncle, Maffeo Polo.”

I nodded at them. “Welcome to Xanadu. You are feeling better now?”

“Yes, thank you.” His father, thin and intense, angular and sharp, had hawkish eyes of dark gray, not green like Marco’s. Beneath his neatly trimmed beard, his thin lips tensed in a straight line.

Uncle Maffeo, tall and big-bellied, with pure white hair and beard, coughed so deeply he had trouble stammering out his greeting. “A pleasure to meet you.”

Although he was a large, imposing man, I immediately felt sympathy for him. “The journey from Khanbalik was not too hard, I hope?” I said.

“We want come earlier. We send apologies to Khan,” responded Marco’s father. “We stay rest of summer here.” His Mongolian was choppier than Marco’s, and his accent much thicker. His manner—distant, formal, dry—contrasted with Marco’s charm.

I nodded, sensing that the rest of my summer would be much more constrained. My days of lighthearted fun with
Marco had ended. The Khan had assigned me to get to know all three Latins. Perhaps these older men knew more important information about their homeland than Marco did.

Uncle Maffeo began coughing again. Marco tapped his back with care and affection while I stood awkwardly.

Marco’s father ignored the coughing and continued, his voice sleek and oily. “I trust my son has pleased the Khan of all Khans.”

“Yes. The Great Khan has invited him back to his banquet hall to tell another tale.” I remembered that the success of their trading mission depended on the Khan’s goodwill. I suspected that Niccolo Polo thought of little else.

With a pang, I realized that it would no longer be possible for me to see Marco alone. No more talk of courtly love. That should have pleased me. I would have safety in numbers. But part of me, a part I was trying to suppress, felt disappointed.

That first day, I took them into a pavilion in the garden. Marco asked me to repeat to them many of the things I had told him about myself and about Xanadu. In their presence, Marco was more subdued.

“Your son has told me about your homeland, Venezia,” I said to his father. “I hope to visit it someday.”

His father’s eyebrows shot up. But his uncle smiled. “We would welcome visitors from the Khan’s court. But is a long journey for a lady.”

I smiled at him, practicing hiding my thoughts. “Of course. I have never traveled. But I enjoy hearing about distant lands. Marco tells me you have visited many lands.”

After that day, every five days, I walked in the gardens or the grasslands or rode in the hills with Marco, his father, and
his uncle. On other days, I was free to spend time as I wished, racing and competing against Suren and the other cousins. Each time I met with the Latins, I looked for the chink in their armor, half hoping I would not find it.

Marco’s father was cautious around me, erecting walls of defense, and did not divulge any information about his homeland. His uncle Maffeo, though, seemed more relaxed and told many stories, often humorous. His health gradually improved.

As for Marco and me, our friendship resumed the formal distance it should always have had. Marco, ever talkative, continued to tell me stories of his homeland and of their journey. I asked about the various kings and emperors, trying to remember which had the strongest armies. His uncle patiently taught me many words of Latin until I could stammer out a few sentences, including my favorite, “
Deus amat Mongoliam.
” That means “God loves Mongolia.” I also asked many questions about the Religion of Light but found the answers confusing.

Marco never again brought up the subject of how fearful the Mongol army looked to his countrymen. Nor did he touch me. But he had already said enough, and I could see admiration and longing in his eyes.

After each talk, I reported to my uncle. One of his men listened to my report and wrote down some of the things I said. No matter how many names of places and kings I memorized, nothing seemed to light up Chimkin’s eyes. Even Suren could find out nothing further about how likely it might be that I could join the army.

Every day, I felt torn. In my effort to achieve my own dream, I was collecting information that might someday
destroy Marco’s beloved homeland. The more I learned of the lovely waterways of Venezia and the grand cathedrals of Rome, the more I realized that conquest by the Khan’s troops might harm them more than help them.

Seventh Moon waxed hot, and Eighth Moon hotter. Women sat in the shadiest parts of the garden and fanned themselves with silk fans. Men cursed, hopped on their horses, and rode far afield. This was the hottest summer Xanadu had ever seen.

Marco continued to amuse the Khan with his stories, but I was not invited again. Suren and Temur were sometimes invited. From what Suren told me, it seemed that Marco learned quickly what type of stories pleased the Khan—mostly tales of the lands he had visited on his travels, the quirks and lore of the people he had observed.

Suren began to teach me a little swordsmanship, though we had to do it in secret. He passed on to me what he had learned from the sword master. We arose early each morning to spend several hours practicing, in a small clearing hidden in the woods.

By late in Eighth Moon, I was growing worried. The summer was nearing its end and I had not discovered any information about Marco’s homeland that would be useful to our army. I began to despair. How could I find what my uncle had asked for?

One hot day, Marco’s father did not come out with us. He had to meet someone about his trading business. But his uncle joined us for a walk in the garden. To avoid the midday heat, we met in the morning and sat near a pleasant waterfall.

Uncle Maffeo was built like a huge bear, but he was far gentler than Marco’s wiry, tense father. In his brother’s presence, the uncle spoke little, but on that day, he became affable and talkative.

He and I were sitting on a marble bench, chatting about his travels, when Uncle Maffeo mentioned the “Holy Land.”

“Tell me more about this Holy Land,” I said. “It is in Christendom?”

Uncle Maffeo smiled and wiped his pink forehead, which was streaming with sweat. “Marco, you didn’t tell her about the Holy Land?” he asked with a smile.

Marco must have shaken his head. He stood behind me, in the shade of a tree.

“The Holy Land is where our Lord Jesus lived,” Uncle Maffeo explained. “All of Christianity is based on his life and teachings. Let me show you where it is.”

As Marco had done once before, Uncle Maffeo picked up a stick and drew a map in the dirt at our feet. The Holy Land was at the eastern edge of the Middle-of-the-Earth Sea, and Christendom lay north and west of it.

As he was drawing, I felt a slight touch on the back of my neck, between my braids. Startled, I turned my head. Marco smiled gently, holding up his finger to show a tiny bead of sweat he had tenderly wiped from my neck. I smiled at him.

He had not touched me since that day in the grasslands when he had tucked a flower behind my ear. I sensed he was feeling, as I was, sad that our days together in Xanadu would be over soon.

“We Christians fought hard to take back the Holy Land,” Maffeo explained. “But the Muslims—the Saracens, from
Arabia—stole most of it back from us. We’ve sent armies again and again, for years, to win back the Holy Land from the infidels. Every man in Christendom knows the importance of this duty. It’s God’s will.”

My braids lifted off my back. Marco was trying to help me feel cooler. Each time he touched me, I lost track of what his uncle was saying. God’s will, of course, was that the Mongols conquer every land, but I was feeling too good to argue.

“If only the Mongols would help us,” Uncle Maffeo was saying.

My attention returned. “Help you do what?”

“Take back the Holy Land! That’s what the Pope’s letter to the Khan was all about, and we’re hoping the Khan will agree. The Pope’s fondest dream is that the Khan will form an alliance with Christendom, to retake the Holy Land.”

“I’m confused,” I said. “How would that work?”

“If the Mongol troops came from the East, from Persia, like this,” he said, drawing in the dirt an arrow pointing to the Holy Land, “then all the kings and princes in Christendom would travel from the West to join them, with their finest soldiers.” He drew lines over the sea, showing that they would come by ship. “With our combined forces, we could finally drive the Saracens out of the Holy Land!” Uncle Maffeo seemed as thrilled as a Mongol commander planning a battle.