Daughter of Xanadu (4 page)

“Emmajin is an unusual name for a maiden,” Aju commented.

My father nodded. “I wanted to name her Tara, for the goddess of compassion. But she was born on the day my father became khan, and he chose this name for her.”

I lifted my chin and shot a look of pride toward the general, who was nodding as if impressed. My name, Emmajin, a gift from the Khan of all Khans, was the female form of Temujin, the birth name of the Great Ancestor, Chinggis Khan.

“So your son plans to compete in archery today?” my father asked.

Aju grimaced. “His skills are not yet perfected. The Great Khan will be present?”

My father nodded. “I believe so.”

My heart pounded. Oh, to have a chance to demonstrate my skills to the Great Khan himself! Then he would see that I was worthy of my name.

My father continued. “I hear your son can read and write?”

“In Chinese and in the new Mongolian script. He spends too much time at it.”

“The court needs men who can read. He could serve the Khan well as an official.” My father and his brothers were part of the first generation of Mongols to read and write, and he took pride in it. But I agreed with Aju that reading was unnecessary.

Aju shook his head. “Someday, perhaps, after he proves
his worth in the army. His elder brother fought in the battle for Hsiangyang.”

At that moment, I was offering a second plate of cheese. My curiosity took charge, and I could no longer remain silent.

“We heard about the battle,” I said tentatively. Everyone looked at me in shock. “This new machine, this catapult,” I continued, checking Aju’s eyes to see if it was all right to continue. “Is that what made us win? It seems …” I had never been good with words. “Is it true that—Was it really the idea of a foreigner, from Persia?”

Aju’s eyebrows rose halfway up his forehead. I wanted to hear his answers, but he said nothing. My mother started toward me, as if trying to stop me.

The questions kept spilling out of my mouth. “This machine—will it be used in future battles? And did the rocks actually kill enemies, or just scare them?”

Aju put his
airag
bowl on a side table and stared at me until I went silent. Then he looked at my father. “She sounds more like a soldier than a wife,” he said. He rose.

My father looked chagrined. The betrothal talks had ended. He had lost.

As my father escorted Aju and his scrawny son to the door, Mama hissed at me, “Now we’ll never find you a husband!” I hoped that was true. But I felt a pang when I saw Drolma’s pale face twisted with distress.

My father returned, sat down, and called me to him. His thick eyebrows formed a solid line. “You have failed four times now. I don’t know what to do with you.”

Suddenly, I didn’t care what he thought of me. I remembered the feelings of joy, at the parade, and pride, after the
victory story. That was what I wanted in my life, not these dreadful betrothal talks. I planted my feet firmly and lifted my chin.

“Here’s what you can do with me,” I said. “Permit me to join the army.”

My mother gasped, and my father’s eyebrows shot up. “The Khan would never agree to that. Can you imagine, a mere girl fighting on the battlefield?”

I had imagined it many times. “I can do anything Suren can do,” I said.

My father readjusted his body. “That will never happen. It is wrong to kill even an insect, let alone a human being. Our goal should be compassion, not conquest. Here.”

He reached inside his cloth sash and pulled out a small square of silver. On one side was a tiny picture, painted on cloth. I took it from him reluctantly. The picture was of a young woman, seated in the lotus position, with a halo of light around her.

“It is Tara, the Great Protectress,” he said. “I had hoped to give it to you on the day of your betrothal. It should remind you of good behavior and right thinking.”

Although I did not know much about his religion, Buddhism, the idea of not killing even an insect seemed ridiculous—especially for Mongols, who loved meat. How could our ancestors have conquered the world without warfare? The old religion, revering Tengri, Eternal Heaven, had worked well for them. Tengri had decreed that the Mongols should rule the entire world. Why switch to a new religion?

My father’s handing me this Tara amulet when I had asked to join the army seemed a mockery. I wanted to drop it on the floor, but he had never given me a gift before.

“I know you wish you had a son,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “Let me be that son. I will go to war, and if I fight well, it will bring you honor.”

His face darkened. “If you fought in a battle, it would bring me shame.”

What more could I say? When he dismissed me, I bowed in deference and rushed to my room to change. If I hurried, I would have time to make it to the archery tournament by noon.

I left the Tara amulet on the floor near my bed, spurned and forgotten.

T
he tournament took place in the front courtyard of the palace, a plain of flat gray flagstones between the front gate and the massive main audience hall, with its yellow tiled roof that curved up at the corners. Servants moved a wide thronelike chair out of the hall so the Khan could watch the tournament from the top of a flight of marble stairs.

Each contestant arrived holding a bow, with a quiver of arrows at his back. The high voices of children and the deep voices of men mingled in the cool air, under a cloudy sky. Although this area lay inside the palace wall, it was open to any man with a permit to enter, including selected foreigners.

My mother’s objection still rang in my ears, but my father had just shrugged when I had left my family’s quarters with my favorite quiver and my bow tucked into my leather belt. I wanted to be the son my father never had, but that was only part of my motivation.

For years, Suren and I had organized tournaments for the
boy cousins in the back courtyards of the palace. No boy had spent as many hours as I had perfecting skills in both still and mounted archery. Recently, as Suren and Temur were becoming men, their arms were getting stronger than mine, but I still could beat them, most of the time. My pride would not allow me to sit and watch them compete—with the Great Khan judging them—knowing that I could win.

Temur stood at the heart of the crowd, gesticulating and barking orders. He organized the contestants into groups. Ages ten and eleven would compete together, then twelve and thirteen, then fourteen and fifteen. This was my last day as a fifteen-year-old.

Suren saw me from a distance as I entered the crowded courtyard. His eyebrows shot up when he saw the quiver of arrows at my back. I made my way through the crowd to where they stood. When Temur noticed me, armed with my bow and arrows, he shook his head. Others stepped aside as I strode up to them. Temur began to object, but Suren cut him off.

“Emmajin will compete with us.” For once, Suren’s voice sounded decisive.

“No girls,” Temur said.

“Only Emmajin.” Suren stared him down. The two brothers engaged in a brief power struggle. As a younger brother, Temur was bound to obey, but Suren had seldom insisted. “You’re not confident you can beat her?” Suren challenged him.

Temur turned to me, his eyes burning with resentment. “It would be better for you, Elder Sister, if you did not compete.” “Elder Sister” was a term of respect, but it did not hide Temur’s anger.

His plan was suddenly clear to me: he had counted on defeating his brother in public. And Suren hoped to cling to his superior position by beating Temur. If I won, I would humiliate both brothers, before the Khan. Although I wanted to demonstrate my skills to the Khan, I certainly did not want to humiliate Suren. I hesitated a moment, feeling a flash of compassion for both Suren and Temur. But Temur’s defiant scowl justified my decision and strengthened my desire to win. I had too much at stake to turn away.

“Younger Brother,” I said to Temur, “I will compete.”

Temur’s eyes flashed at me. “Good,” he said. It sounded like a challenge.

The youngest boys competed first. They lined up close to the targets, which were small sandbags piled neatly into low stacks. The aim was to hit the highest bag in the center of the stack.

I watched from near the back of the crowd, wondering if I had made a mistake.

One little boy became so excited that he wet his pants. Some boys laughed.

I heard from just behind me a distinctive laugh, deep and resonant. As I turned to look, the man behind me had to duck to avoid being hit by the arrows on my back. He was a foreigner, with the thickest beard and largest nose I had ever seen. A fist of fear gripped my throat. I had never stood so close to a foreigner.

The man saw me staring and smiled at me—or at least appeared to. His mouth was invisible inside all that facial hair, which shone with alarming glints of red. His huge round eyes showed delight at the sight of me. They were the strangest color, green like the pond in the palace garden.

“That boy may lead an army someday,” he said, pointing to the wet stain.

I was surprised I could understand him; it had not occurred to me that foreigners could speak Mongolian. His eyes looked cheerful and intelligent. But I could not get over his strange appearance. The foreigners in Old Master’s stories were always menacing.

I moved away to avoid responding. Many at court said that foreigners brought bad luck.

As I watched the younger boys compete, a thought entered my mind: if I won, perhaps I could ask the Great Khan to grant a special request. I was not sure I dared ask such a bold question in public. But if I did, it could make all the difference for my future.

The sun had lowered to just above the palace walls by the time of the next-to-last contest, for fourteen- and fifteen-year-old Mongols from outside the palace. I recognized several of my former suitors and was glad they would see me compete. Jebe’s arrows flew disastrously off course, and he placed last among ten contenders.

Finally, the time came for the last tournament, for the eldest of the grandchildren: Suren, Temur, and me. It would be our last contest as children, since I would be sixteen the next day and Suren would turn sixteen within a month. After that, we would be considered adults.

Temur, with his strong voice, had been calling all contestants for each tournament, and this time, he called for “all grandsons of the Great Khan, aged fourteen and fifteen.”

I stepped forward and stood next to him and Suren. The crowd murmured.

Because I was a girl, I was highly visible. Both boys and
girls wore the same clothing, the Mongolian
del
, an outer robe with a high collar, cinched with a bright-colored sash at the waist. But I had two thick braids down my back. All the boys had the distinctive Mongolian male haircut: a bare spot shaved at the top of the head, with a fringe of hair over the forehead and the rest in two long braids pinned up in loops under the ears.

We three competitors stood in a row and bowed toward the Great Khan. Three times, we performed the kowtow on our hands and knees, touching our foreheads to the ground, showing our loyalty and obedience to the Emperor.

After the third kowtow, we waited with our heads on the cold flagstones. Everyone in the crowded courtyard fell silent.

“Rise!” The Khan’s voice boomed. “I have only two grandsons this age.”

I stepped forward, my head bowed.

“Speak!” the Khan commanded.

I looked up the marble stairs at my grandfather, at his round head and thin, pointed beard, his huge ears and narrow eyes. With his bulky body, he seemed grand and immovable. But I had seen a softer side of him, when he joked with the children of the court in less formal settings, and I knew he symbolized all that was good and wise in the Empire.

I willed myself to speak as boldly as possible. “As the eldest granddaughter of the Khan of all Khans, as one named after the Great Ancestor himself, I beg your permission to compete in this tournament.”

My voice sounded thin and high compared to Temur’s strong tones. The Khan regarded me in silence. I gathered my courage to continue.

“If my archery pleases you, I beg you to consider allowing me to join your army.”

A collective gasp rose around me, and Suren shot me a warning look.

The Khan stared at me for what seemed an eternity. As the most powerful ruler the world had ever known, he reigned over the largest empire in history. What I asked for was far-fetched but not impossible. Had I overstepped my bounds?

Finally, the Khan spoke. “Win or lose, come to see me tomorrow. I make no promises today.” His voice sounded deep and ominous.

But to me, “win or lose” meant I could compete. And the next day, on my birthday, I could make my case to the Khan. What a gift. I smiled at him to convey my gratitude.

We three contestants took our positions, lined up, bows in hand. My bow, like all great Mongol bows, curved in a large arc, then curled back at each end. I ran my fingers over its smooth layers of bone and sinew and horn. Its fine horsehair string was so tight that it took great strength to pull it back. My arrows were made of supple bamboo, with vulture feathers and sharp metal tips that could rip deep into human flesh.