Daughter of Xanadu (21 page)

During the next five days, we passed through increasingly rough terrain. We had to climb on foot up ever more arduous trails and descend so steeply that my knees became wobbly. The higher we rose, the more I wanted to spend time with Marco, to hear his distinctive laugh, to exchange a few words of Latin, to see the wrinkles around his eyes when he smiled. But Suren succeeded in keeping us apart.

As we rode, I constantly thought of Marco. I remembered stroking his warm shoulder when he was wounded. I recalled the feel of his hand as we had stood on the stepping stone in the Khan’s garden at Xanadu. Once, I had caught a glimpse of his chest, and it had been covered with curly hair. I wondered what that hair would feel like under my fingers.

We were as far from the lavish court of Khubilai Khan as I could imagine. The strict rules of Mongol court behavior seemed to fade with each mile we rode.

Finally, we came to a village of Tibetans. Our journey would not take us deep into the heart of Tibet, to the monasteries and temples my father spoke of reverently. Instead, we would skirt that huge mountainous land, passing through several of its poorer villages. Gautama Buddha himself had come from a mountainous country south of Tibet, and the red-hatted lamas of Tibet had brought their enlightened ways of Buddhism to the Mongols, converting my father and my grandmother, the Empress Chabi.

As we wound down the mountainside to the Tibetan village of mud houses, large dogs rushed at us, barking.
Villagers came out to greet us in a spirit of friendship, offering their homes for us to stay in. They were poorly clad, wearing handspun wool or the skins of beasts, and their smiling faces were splotched with dirt. I wondered how they could live in such an inhospitable climate, since I saw few signs of agriculture and no fertile grasslands for their herds, lumbering beasts that looked like huge hairy cattle.

That night we did not sleep in our tents but in the homes of the villagers. A toothless woman saw Suren and me and mimed eating from a bowl. We followed her into a small house, wondering what food these poor people could spare for a group of travelers far more numerous than the population of their village.

The house was dark and windowless and had a rancid smell of yak butter. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. We sat on low wooden stools near the fire.

The old woman put into my hand a small cracked bowl filled with a warm oily liquid—yak-butter tea. It was a long way from the fresh, milky
airag
I was used to. It had a foul, bitter taste. But its warmth calmed my stomach. I smiled at the woman, and she smiled back. She stirred a pot on the fire and offered us thin porridge. Suren went out to our mules and returned with a side of fresh venison. Her eyes bulged when she saw it. Thanking him profusely, she cut a piece of it and stirred it into the porridge. These Buddhists refused to kill animals but did not refuse to eat meat.

After dinner, Suren quickly fell asleep. But I bundled up in my warmest cloak and headed out for the stream that ran through the village. It was late in Eleventh Moon, and after sunset, a still cold descended from the peaks above. I tucked
my hands under my arms as I walked, welcoming the clear, cold air on my cheeks and in my throat.

This place was as remote as I could imagine from the festive bustle of the capital, high above the flatlands of Khanbalik. Reality was skewed; what was impossible elsewhere seemed possible here. I wasn’t sure what I wanted of Marco, but I longed to talk to him in private.

The thin air of Tibet, and the magical quality of that village, distorted my thinking. I knew very well that a closer friendship with Marco could destroy my standing in the military. Yet I was not thinking about that. Right then I just wanted to be alone with Marco.

The moon was as large and clear as I had ever seen it, a brilliant silvery white, with patterns visible on its pale face. Its light made the landscape glow with an otherworldly clarity. I walked upstream, around a bend, where the huts of the village were just out of sight. I could not even smell the smoke from the wood fires in the village. I wondered briefly about wild creatures, remembering the gleam of the big cat’s eyes. But I pushed aside all thoughts of dread and safety.

I leaned back against a boulder and stared at the stream, which reflected a moon that bobbed and changed shape with the rushing water. The Tibet sky, I noticed, had twice as many stars as ours, and each shone more brilliantly than those we saw at home.

I heard footsteps behind me. I sensed the fragrance of spices before I saw him. Somehow, I had known that Marco would come.

He, too, was wrapped in a thick coat and walked with his hands tucked under his arms. He still favored his left arm,
though it was no longer in a sling. With his fur-lined hat, he could have passed for a Mongol, but I recognized his step.

Marco stopped when he saw me, then approached wordlessly. He leaned against the same boulder, an arm’s length away. It seemed that he, too, had been looking for a way for us to talk alone. We had more to say than we could put into words.

I broke the silence. “Surely the stars are not this brilliant in Venezia?”

He looked above us and soaked up the spectacle. “I have never seen them so brilliant. This land is blessed.” I could see his breath as he spoke.

There was comfort and familiarity between us, but also a pulsating tension.

“Marco, tell me. Why did you come on this journey?”

“I swore to your Great Khan that I would tell no one, except Abaji. But it will become clear soon enough, once we arrive in Carajan.”

“You can tell me.”

“I am loyal only to the Great Khan.” He was lightly mocking my own protestations of loyalty that day in the garden.

“You know I would not betray you,” I said, echoing his tone.

He cocked his head but did not mention that I had already betrayed him once. I smiled reassurance, and he chose to trust me. “There is a medicine, in Carajan, which is powerful enough to heal the illness that afflicts the Great Khan’s feet. To cure gout.”

I smiled. Clever Marco. He had figured out a way to make the Khan grateful to him. “And he has sent you to purchase it? You will heal our Great Khan?”

He laughed in that familiar way. “It is made from the gall of a dragon.”

I thought he had mispronounced a word. “A dragon? You told me once they were mythical creatures. Superstitious people, you said, think they breathe fire.”

He smiled a delicious smile. “In Carajan, in the mountains of southwest China, dwells a creature men call a serpent. In fact, it is not a serpent but a kind of dragon. One that does not breathe fire. The medicine comes from its gallbladder.”

“And how will you obtain this medicine?”

“They sell it in the markets of Carajan.”

“The Great Khan could have any man buy this medicine and send it back. One of his most trusted generals is governor of Carajan.”

“He asked me to capture a dragon and bring it back to Khanbalik alive, so he can have a continual supply.”

I laughed. “Even I know you cannot milk gall from an animal. You have to kill the animal to get it. You will need at least one male and one female, to reproduce. I cannot imagine how you would transport two dragons back to Khanbalik.”

He paused. “Will you help me?”

“Capture a dragon, with rows of teeth in its jaws?”

“Yes, but without slaying it.”

I laughed again. “I can think of nothing I’d rather do.”

“Tell no one.”

So this was the secret he had been harboring. Marco was full of surprises. We were alone in the moonlight, yet he made no move toward me. His manner was upright and controlled, but I sensed he was reining himself in for my sake.

I reached my hand toward his arm, which was trembling. I slipped both arms around the bulk of his waist. He hugged my shoulders as tightly as our fur-lined cloaks would allow. He put his hand behind my neck and tilted my face up to his. His eyes seemed dark and deep, roaming over my features. My nose tingled with the spicy scent of him. Inside my cloak, my body pushed hard toward him, resisting the layers between us.

His face drew closer, and I could feel the bristly softness of his beard against my cheek. Suddenly, his lips were on mine, soft and wet, and his mustache tickled my upper lip. A wondrous tingling sensation flooded through my body.

For a long moment, I luxuriated in the unexpected, glorious feel of his touch. Then the urgency of his embrace, the full moonlight, the sound of the rushing stream brought me back with a jolt.

I pushed him away. “What was that?” I asked.

He seemed chastened. “We call it
bacio
. What is the word in your language?”

I shook my head. “We have no such word. People do not do this.”

“I meant no offense,” he said.

The
bacio
was strange but also delicious. I wanted to try again. I began to move toward him.

“Emmajin! Where are you?” Suren’s yell sounded frantic.

“Stay here,” I whispered to Marco. Suren must not see us together alone. I headed back toward the village. Just as I reached the bend, my cousin rushed toward me.

“Emmajin! Thanks be, you’re safe. Where have you been!” he grabbed my arms and looked me over.

“Taking a walk, that’s all.”

“Are you all right?”

I adopted a commanding tone. “Of course!”

Suren looked past me and saw Marco still standing by the rock. My cousin looked at me, eyes full of questions and accusation. “It’s freezing. Come back now.”

As I walked back with him, I could sense his anger mounting. He led me to a military
ger
, secured the tent flap, and stirred the fire while I sat cross-legged on a sleeping fur. He added some wood to the fire, then knelt, facing me.

“What were you doing?” His eyes showed concern and disappointment.

I sat straight. What right had he to question my doings? “Talking to Marco.”

“Marco. What did you have to say to Marco at this time of night?”

I did not deign to answer.

“Emmajin.” He sat next to me, less accusing. “Be careful. Others are watching.”

The firelight flickered on the white walls of the
ger
. I looked away. I could still feel the
bacio
on my lips.

“It’s my fault,” Suren said. “I will never leave you alone again.”

It would have been pointless to argue. I knew he was right. To risk harming my reputation in the military was like stabbing my own foot with a dagger. I could not explain to myself this forbidden attraction.

“Suren,” I said, with as much authority as I could, “do not fear.”

A
fter that night, Suren would not leave my side. He slept inside my tent. Even when I went to relieve myself, he stood guard. The other soldiers did not notice. If Marco noticed, he did not show it. He kept his distance, but I could feel his eyes on me. Suren’s watchfulness made Marco seem more forbidden, more desirable. Just one glance from him made me feel connected. It was too late for Suren to pry us apart.

Within a few days, we had passed out of Tibetan territory and into the province of Caindu, a verdant, forested land with mountains, not quite as steep, but still arduous. At every village, people came out, trying to sell us turquoise stones and freshwater pearls. I bought a string of them, to give to my sister.

After ten days of riding, we came to a huge river, called the Brius, or Long River in Chinese. It was the second great river of China and ran all the way to the ocean. Even here,
thousands of miles inland, it was wide and swift. We crossed it by ferry.

On the other side, at last, was the province of Carajan—a large mountainous region with seven separate kingdoms, each of which had a distinct tongue and a unique style of clothing. We had to hire local guides who understood Chinese, requiring two translations. No one in this part of the Empire understood Mongolian.

Finally, fifteen days after crossing the river Brius, we arrived at our destination, the city of Carajan, sometimes called Da-li. We first spotted the city from a mountain pass to the east. At the crest of the pass, I looked down on a deep mountain lake reflecting pink clouds in the late afternoon. On the far side, Da-li, an ancient walled city, overlooked the large lake, climbing a gentle slope. This mild southern climate was not too cold, even in midwinter. But it had been raining, so I was soaked.

Standing in my short stirrups to take in the view, I grinned at Suren, who was next to me. The weariness of travel disappeared from my body. “I’ll race you there!” I took off on my horse and Suren followed. We galloped like madmen straight downhill. We soldiers had not been traveling in formation since entering the mountains.

The palace at Carajan, a stone structure by the lake, was surrounded by high walls and turrets with curved roofs. The buildings inside, small and fanciful, were painted with bright designs well suited to the lush mountain greenery. The servants wore black garments decorated with strips of bright cloth. The women wore many necklaces and earrings, and the men had gold teeth in their smiles.

When we rode into the courtyard, we were met by
Nesruddin, the governor of Carajan and commander of the Mongol army garrison. Nesruddin, a Muslim, had won renown as a valiant soldier. A tall man with wide shoulders and huge girth, he wore a round brimless hat, pure white, perched in his thick dark hair, which he did not shave. He spoke Mongolian with only a slight accent, since he had spent part of his childhood in Khanbalik. He had a broad, ready smile and seemed genuinely pleased to greet us.