Daughter of Xanadu (34 page)

The smell of fresh meat cooking over fires wafted up the hill and drew me down into the camp. Bare-chested men, their arm muscles bulging, wrestled in the warm sand. A pack of men howled and chased each other across our path. One man, his jaws working and his chin greasy, looked up at me from a fleshy bone he held in both hands.

Here in the Khan’s hunting camp, steaming in their male juices, with no wives or children around, men could boast of the hunt, overeat, and burp, free of the restrictive rules and majesty of the court.

The only women other than me were those who had been brought for the pleasure of the men. They were laughing, loose-haired women. I had heard of such women and seen a few on the road, but I had never seen so many flaunting their bodies openly in one place.

My cousin Temur had escorted me from Khanbalik, two days’ journey to this hunting camp by the seaside. We traveled with a small group of his friends from the army, sons of young officers, and a maid from the court to attend me. I had heard tales of the rowdiness of the Khan’s hunting camp, but I did not know until we arrived how unusual it was for a royal woman to visit it. Not only was I out of place here, among the Khan’s men, but I realized I had no desire to be
part of this man’s world. I was certain they didn’t want me here, either.

I was happy to retreat to my own tent with my maid, as well as two guards. Even after six months with the army, I was glad to have the guards. I had no idea where Marco was staying and did not dare wander about the camp on my own to find him.

During the journey, and alone in my tent, I took time to think. Confused and worried, I wanted to be prepared and not act on impulse.

That evening, I felt sure, my fate would be decided. Perhaps my grandmother had spoken to the Khan and he had already made up his mind. Perhaps not.

This would be my last chance to state my case. Marco would tell his story about the battle of Vochan and praise me as a hero. I was no longer proud of killing all those men and horses in battle, and I hoped he would not exaggerate my role. But if all went well, his story would validate the Khan’s decision to let me join the army, and help me appear worthy in the eyes of his men. As one who had helped achieve victory, I would have a voice worth hearing.

Fingering the dragon’s tooth, I thought about Suren. That night would be his funeral oration, shaping the way Suren would be remembered. Saddened, I wondered what advice he would give me if he were here. What legacy would he really want? Suren was a loyal Mongol soldier. He represented everything that was finest about Mongol ideals.

I needed greater strength than the memory of Suren could give me. I took out the Tara amulet, which fit easily in my palm.

Tara, Tara
, I thought.
What should I say?
She looked out
of the amulet, her sweet face emanating compassion. I felt certain she would approve of my taking a message of peace from the Khan to Christendom. I wished she could speak to the Khan through me.

Compassion
. I remembered the faces of the Burmese soldiers I had killed. The soldiers of the Burmese army were good men like Suren, obeying their king. How had I looked to them, hacking and slaying? Questions of war and peace were beyond me. The Khan of all Khans, at the age of sixty, had far more wisdom than I did about such matters. But whatever small role I could play, I wanted it to be for peace.

I could not solve the problem of Burma. But distant, weak Christendom, and its leaders, might be open to a different resolution. Exchanging letters could not solve all the problems of the world, but it might work in the case of Marco’s homeland. How fine it would look to Marco’s people if the Khan sent not an army but a maiden!

Marco and I could be partners in this effort. He could explain my mission to the Pope, in their language. As a representative of the most powerful ruler in the world, I would be welcomed and treated well.

But how could I prove to the Khan that I was mature enough, skilled and articulate enough, to be taken seriously as an ambassador? How could I convince him that I wanted to do this not for my own glory, or simply to spend more time with Marco, but for a greater purpose, a mission of which Tara would approve?

In one hand, I held Suren’s dragon tooth, still on its leather thong. He had won it by bravery, not on the battlefield but in service to the Khan’s healing. It was also a symbol of his friendship with the foreigners Marco the Latin and
Little Li, the villager from a tribe near the border with Burma.

In the other hand, I held the amulet. I had once scorned Tara but now treasured her as a symbol of my aspirations. I looked closely at her picture. In her hand, she held a large flower. She was known as the Great Protectress, yet she did not carry any weapons.

Next to me, beside my sleeping fur, were my bow and arrows. I ran my finger along the smooth surface of my bow. It had served me well in battle. It was the symbol of my status as a Mongol warrior. I had worked hard to be accepted as a soldier. But I could not stand for both war and peace. Whatever came to pass, I would no longer fight with weapons. Instead, I would pour my fighting energy into something more worthwhile.

I wanted to show the world that we Mongols were not just fierce fighters, the conquerors of Chinggis Khan. We had evolved into wise rulers, heirs to his grandson, Khubilai the Wise.

Looking at these objects, at last I figured out what I needed to do.

T
hat evening was Marco’s big opportunity to tell his best story to the Khan.

The Khan and his men gathered outdoors, in a grassy meadow not far from the sea, on a warm spring evening that felt like summer. The Great Khan sat on a wide wooden throne-chair halfway up the hill, behind a coarse plank table loaded with freshly cooked meat from the hunt. Everyone else sat on the ground, grabbing meat off platters passed by servants, eating with their hands, licking juice off their fingers, tossing bones onto the ground, drinking
airag
from greasy silver cups.

The meal was an orgy of excess: the usual venison, but also bear, wildcat, wild boar, and various birds. There was not one fish dish, though we were by the ocean, and there were no unappetizing vegetables, rice, or grain. The meat tasted even better for the smell of smoke and aromas from the
cooking fires and the crispness of the night breezes off the sea. Overhead, stars spattered across the clear sky.

Men mingled easily. I wished I could find Marco and sit with him, but I did not see him. I wondered if he was in his tent, rehearsing his story.

Temur introduced me to more of his companions, who peppered me with questions about the battle.

“I hear the Burmese fought with elephants, is that true?” one man asked me.

“Yes, they brought at least two thousand of them!” I said.

The men murmured their amazement.

Temur looked away. “Her role was very small,” he said.

I smiled and shook my head. The others would hear the story soon enough.

When it was time for the entertainment, Temur and I sat down near the Khan, on a blanket. On the Khan’s right sat Chimkin. Near them sat many of the Khan’s other sons, and just below Temur sat a group of princes from his generation. Although an outsider might have thought we were sitting casually on the ground, the strict hierarchy of the court prevailed.

After the feasting was over, I finally saw Marco. When his moment came, he appeared in the area where we of the Golden Family were seated, and he bowed to the Khan.

At a signal from the Khan, Marco climbed up on a table and held out his arms to quiet the crowd. From that place, not far from where I was sitting, he could be heard by hundreds of men. Marco looked stunning in a blue
del
with silver threads. He ran his eyes over us, lingering a moment on my face. He had known where I was all along.

“Great Khan of all Khans, generals and commanders, princes and kings, dukes and marquesses, counts and knights!” He spoke loudly and clearly. I noticed how much improved his accent was after he had spent nearly a year in our land. Still, he had a slight lilt to his voice, softening the harshness of our tongue.

“I have traveled the length and breadth of this great Empire, and I can tell you that there is no city in the world as grand as Khanbalik! No garden as fair as Xanadu! And no meal as delicious as the freshly killed game I have eaten tonight!”

The men cheered and stomped. Flattery works everywhere in the world.

Marco held up his silver cup. “There is no wine as delightful as this fresh springtime
airag
! And no ruler as powerful, as wealthy, and as wise as the Great Khan Khubilai, Son of Heaven, founder of the Yuan dynasty, Great Khan above all Khans, ruler of the Mongol Empire, which stretches from the lands of the rising sun to the lands of the setting sun!” His voice rose in a crescendo to a peak of intensity.

The Great Khan had a big smile on his broad face, under his sloping mustache. His eyes disappeared into thin slits above his ruddy cheeks. The Son of Heaven rose from his throne. Several aides rushed to his side, but he gestured for them to move back. He stood on his own, balancing easily on his feet. The Khan lifted his jewel-studded golden cup, and the music struck up. All the men raised their cups, watching the Khan drink before they followed suit. After they swallowed, they let out a loud cheer: “Long live the Great Khan! May he live ten thousand years!”

Marco began with the story of the dragon hunt. He exaggerated the dangers and played up each moment of bravery. He knew better than to make a hero of himself, and he did not mention my role. But he made a hero of Suren, eldest grandson of the Great Khan. At the first mention of Suren’s name, the men fell quiet. Marco made it sound as if Suren, with minor help from local villagers, went stalking the beasts deep in the jungle and captured them with a lasso. When he described the dragons, he did not need to exaggerate their length, their ferocity, their sharp teeth, their spiny scales.

The men cheered at the ending of the story and helped themselves to more intoxicating
airag
. Marco knew his audience and played it like a zither.

Finally, with his audience drunk on dragons and danger, Marco waded into bloodshed. He told the story of the battle of Vochan with such skill that he brought the Great Khan and all his men to suspenseful silence, then whipped them into a fury of cheering. Marco did not need to embellish the story much. He told of the glory of Burma, with its legendary towers of silver and gold, a country rich beyond imagining.

The Burmese troops were menacing, their numbers overpowering, the elephants mighty and fearsome. Marco captured the nervous apprehension before the battle. The Mongol troops attacked with courage. The elephants bellowed; the horses whinnied in terror; the woods loomed dense and ominous. General Abaji showed brilliance with his mid-battle shift in tactics, using explosions to scare the wits out of the elephants. Marco did not mention that he had suggested this tactic.

Finally, Marco came to my role. He portrayed me as tall
and strong, lean and supple, renowned for fine archery skills, braids flying, bow held high as I charged into battle. Then he described Suren as gallant and fearless, strong and determined, stirring up the enthusiasm of the troops with his war cries, advancing boldly into the fray.

Marco’s words became more extravagant: “Then might you see swashing blows dealt and taken from sword and mace! Then might you see knights and horses and men-at-arms go down! Then might you see arms and hands and legs and heads hewn off! And besides the dead that fell, many a wounded man never rose again, for the sore press there was. The din and uproar were so great that Tengri Himself might have thundered and no man would have heard it! Great was the medley, and dire and perilous was the fighting. The Mongols hacked and slew so mercilessly that it was a piteous sight to see.

“Then Suren, gallant Suren, with the blood of the Great Ancestor Chinggis Khan pounding in his veins, raised his sword and raced directly at the king of Burma himself.”

I smiled to myself as Marco veered off into his “embellishments.” We had never come close to the king of Burma, who had disappeared after the battle ended.

“Emmajin the Brave, her braids flying behind her head, saber raised high, whipped her horse and raced behind him. Mightily did that king of Burma fight. Mightily did Suren hack and hew. The dust and blood flew up in a whirlwind.

“Prince Suren knocked the hostile king off his horse. The dastardly ruler plunged his sword into Suren’s horse, causing the young prince to fly into the air. The prince fell to the ground, wounding his arm. But he jumped to his feet, sword in hand, and engaged the king in direct combat. Wounded
though he was, Prince Suren would have killed the king on the spot. But an enemy came from behind and whacked his legs, causing him to fall.”

A few of the listeners cried out, as if in pain.

“The king raised his sword to the sky and was ready to bring it down. But suddenly, the Burmese soldier fell to his death. Princess Emmajin, archer supreme, had felled that evil protector with one well-placed arrow, straight to the base of the neck.”