Daughter of Xanadu (6 page)

Soon after my mother roused me, I walked into the rear courtyard of the Khan’s palace at Khanbalik, just inside the north gate. The courtyard, wide and leafy, bustled with commotion as everyone prepared for the journey to Xanadu. Men shouted and servants loaded last-minute boxes onto carts, ladies stepped into their canopied sedan chairs, and horses whinnied. My damaged nose filled with the sharp smell of too many animals and men in a confined space.
Fortunately, no one stared at my face. I dodged and ducked and picked my way across, looking down to avoid stepping in horse dung.

Four giant elephants stood at the center of the courtyard. They were lashed together, and one ornate pavilion was strapped on the backs of all four. The Great Khan had decided to try a new mode of travel, inside this pavilion on the backs of four elephants that had arrived with the victorious army. Riding on one elephant would be hard enough; I could not fathom how a pavilion could stay steady on the backs of four such creatures, or how they could possibly walk in unison over such a long distance.

As I approached them, the elephants loomed, ever more massive. What would I say to the Khan during this long day’s ride, the first of our three-day trip to Xanadu? What would he say to me, after my humiliating defeat? I began to sweat, even though the dawn air was still crisp and cool.

The early-morning sunlight glinted on the elaborate woven designs of the silk tapestries, trimmed with golden fringe, that hung on the elephants’ sides. Each creature had legs thicker than the red columns of the throne room, with rounded toenails bigger than my hand. Standing next to one elephant, I looked up its massive side and saw a turbaned man sitting astride its wide neck. Two huge sharp white tusks jutted out from near its mouth, each tipped with a brass fitting. The creature stood still, as if gentle.

“This way, Little Sister.” One of the Khan’s attendants gestured to a brightly painted wooden staircase at the side of the creature. As I climbed, my legs shook and jostled the ladder. My mother’s
del
felt too tight to move in. She had
insisted I wear one of her most beautiful
del
s, the one she had worn as a young bride. The creature turned its head toward me, and its huge round eye seemed hostile.

At the top of the steps, I paused to catch my breath. I rubbed my fingers over the stiff striped tiger skin adorning the wooden side of the pavilion. Above me, the roof had curved eaves in the Chinese style. The four pillars holding it up were painted with creatures of the hunt. Embroidered, tasseled cloths were draped from the sides.

Inside the pavilion, the sun slanted straight into the eyes of the Great Khan, clad in a white ermine cloak. Next to him sat a short, round lady, the Empress Chabi, his chief wife, my grandmother, whose title was
khatun
, “empress.”

The pavilion was surprisingly spacious, with two long benches, but too small for a full-body kowtow. So I fell to my knees and bowed, facedown. My forehead nearly touched the cushions where the Khan’s feet rested. I noticed that his feet were so swollen that they bulged out of his slippers.

The Great Khan bade me to rise. When I straightened up, eyes still down, I could sense him examining my face. The Empress gasped at the sight. My mother had used heavy powder to disguise the purple lines under my eyes as well as the glaring scab on my upper nose. Just the day before, I had scorned my beauty, but now I felt ugly.

“A Mongol always keeps control of his horse,” the Khan said.

I nodded, feeling miserable and stupid.

“Especially a soldier.”

I swallowed hard. Why had I made a fool of myself in front of everyone I knew by making such a request? I had to fight back tears.

“You are no ordinary maiden. I have long known this.”

I dared to look up at him. Beside him, the Empress had a tiny smile in the middle of her wide, moon-round face.

“I have an assignment for you. Are you willing to serve the Khan of all Khans?”

My heart turned over. “Yes, Your Majesty!”

“Then sit here, and keep silent.” He indicated the spot to the left of Empress Chabi, on a tiger skin–covered couch. My grandmother nodded her assent, and I sat down next to her. An assignment from the Khan sounded like a chance to redeem myself.

My bottom sank into a soft cushion filled with down. The view from the Khan’s perch stunned me. Lines of snow white horses and soldiers carrying horse-tail banners stretched out along the north avenue in grand parade formation. A rush of awe surged through me. All these men lived to serve the Khan of all Khans, ruler of the world.

Sitting close to my grandfather for the first time, I was keenly aware of his great bulk. My grandmother smelled of flowery perfume, and the Khan smelled of garlic and sour milk. He spoke quietly to me. “I have invited three guests to ride with us today. They are Latins, merchants from a land in the Far West, one we have not yet conquered.”

Foreigners!
I quaked. Still, I listened with respect.

“In a few years, after we have completed the conquest of China, we will also subjugate their land, though they do not know it. You have a role to play in this mission.”

He leaned back, his eyes sparkling, as if he were teasing me about a special treat. I nodded, confused and overwhelmed.

“You will get to know these merchants, and find out
everything you can about their homeland: its kings, its religion, its language, its defenses, what riches it possesses.”

Shocked, I stammered, “D-do you mean … to spy on them?”

He smiled. “We call it gathering intelligence. This mission would be of greater service to me than any on the battlefield.”

Frustrated, I looked at my fingernails, which were rimmed with dirt.

“Khubilai!” My grandmother sounded surprisingly stern. “She is a girl. Think of her safety.” It amazed me that she would dare to question his judgment.

The Khan regarded me steadily. “Perhaps she cannot handle this. Can you?”

I had not known any foreigners. My grandfather employed many of them, mainly Muslims and Tibetans and Uighurs, but most children at court either scorned them or feared them. Some foreigners, such as Tibetans, had dark eyes and straight hair like us, but wore distinctive clothing. Others, though, had heavy beards and overhanging eyebrows and thick hair, sometimes wavy like the lines in a sand dune. Farther west, I had heard, the men were ever more hairy, and their eye color ever more deviant. We all understood why “colored-eye” men made good warriors, since their very appearance was alarming enough to scare any enemy.

This assignment sounded awful. But the Khan had honored me despite my defeat. Hearing my grandmother raise doubts made me want to prove I was up to the challenge.

“Your Majesty,” I said, “I would be honored.”

Just then, I heard someone coming up the steps. When the visitor’s shaggy head appeared, I recoiled in horror. Here
before me was the frightening foreigner whose image had distracted me during the archery contest. He entered the pavilion and bowed low before the Great Khan, speaking Mongolian with a thick accent.

“Long-a live-a the Kaan of all Kaans.” He mispronounced the soft guttural
kh
sound, making it a sharp
k
.

When the foreigner raised his head, I forced myself to look at his features. His eyes, that alarming green, registered concern when he saw my swollen face. He wore a fine blue Mongolian
del
with a high collar and long sleeves. He masked his smell with a perfume of cloves and ginger.

Then the young foreigner did something strange. He bowed to the Empress and me in a peculiar way, one hand behind him, the other swooping in front. Did he not know that no one ever bowed to women, not even the Empress?

“Great Khatun, Empress Chabi,” he said. Then he added, to me, “Noble lady. Please forgive me if I caused you offense.”

Offense?
I remembered with shame the way I had spit at this man, who I now realized was an honored guest of the Khan. Shaking with embarrassment and confusion, I had no idea what to do or what to say to such an unpredictable, outlandish man.

“Y
oung Marco Polo,” the Khan said with a smile. “No need to be so formal on this occasion. Where are your father and uncle?”

“I am sorry, Your Majesty. They are ill. Only sickness would keep them from so great an honor.” His Mongolian was thickly accented but understandable.

“Just yesterday, in my audience hall, they seemed well. Sit down before these great beasts begin to move.” The Khan indicated a seat to his right.

“Your Majesty is too kind. Your ladies are, ah, beautiful.”

I looked at him with fascinated curiosity, as one would a monkey on a rope. Normally, no one would mention the presence of women when in the company of the Great Khan. We were supposed to be invisible and silent, mere decorations.

“My chief wife, Chabi Khatun. And this is my granddaughter, Emmajin Beki.”
Beki
was my title, meaning “princess.”

The Latin did something beyond comprehension. He took off his hat and kneeled before my grandmother and me. “Chabi Khatun. Emmajin Beki. At your service.”

Not only did he bow on his knees, but he used the honorific form of “you”—not normally used for women and children. No one had ever referred to me that way. I looked at my grandfather with apprehension. He smiled and shook his head at the foreign manners.

At that moment, we heard a shout, and the elephants began moving with a jerk. The foreign man fell over sideways and grabbed the nearest thing, which happened to be my ankle. Sparks of alarm shot up my leg, and I clutched the arm of my seat.

The Khan reached down to the Latin and helped him up to his seat, laughing.

The foreigner’s face turned red, and he spewed apologies. I pulled my feet back under me, but I couldn’t help smiling. He looked ridiculous, this man with the strange name of Marco Polo. How could I have feared him? And yet I felt off balance.

“You shall enjoy the view better from your seat,” the Khan said to him.

As we rode out of the palace, a servant poured us each a goblet of fresh
airag
. It was frothy and milky, with a satisfying sour bite. But the jostling of the pavilion on elephant back made my headache worse. I was glad to remain silent.

Using half-Mongolian, half-Turkic words, Marco Polo stammered out answers to the Khan’s questions. Although respectful, he had a lighthearted manner that surprised me. He spoke about his father, Niccolo, and his uncle, Maffeo, who had visited the court of Khubilai Khan ten years earlier. Apparently, the Khan had treated them well. They had
promised to return with one hundred scholars, to explain their religion to the Great Khan.

Marco Polo, along with his father and his uncle, first visited their Holy Land and brought with them some sacred oil. But they failed to bring the hundred scholars. They had found only three scholars willing to travel to the East with them, and all three had run home when they had encountered war. My grandfather, who loved listening to wise men debate about religion, frowned with disappointment as he queried this young man about the details. Marco seemed flustered, trying to explain this major failure of his father and uncle. I guessed he was not used to speaking for them.

Still, the Great Khan showed more consideration for this man than I had expected. “You speak well, young man. If you live to manhood, you will not fail to prove yourself of sound judgment and true worth. How many summers have you seen?”

“This begins my twenty-first summer.”

I was surprised. He looked older, though his cheerfulness made him seem young.

“Have you trained as a warrior? Fought any battles?”

“No, Your Majesty. Ours is a noble family in Venezia, but I am a merchant’s son.” Though not tall, he seemed well built and strong. What a pity he had no training.

“So you came this great distance, yet you have no services to offer me?”

I had thought of this man as a potential enemy, but the Great Khan assumed he came as a faithful vassal. I realized how little I knew about foreigners.

The Latin seemed startled by the question. “I have traveled across many lands, O Kaan of all Kaans.” That
k
sound
scraped against my ears. Still, the
airag
was causing a light buzz to replace the pounding inside my head, and it helped me to relax.

“Your father spoke only a little of this journey the other day. How long did it take you to get here from your homeland?”

“Three and a half years.”

“So long? Yet you carried the golden tablets of safe passage.” These tablets, I knew, were issued by the Khan to guarantee safe travel within the Empire. I assumed the Khan had given the tablets to Marco’s father and uncle during their previous visit.

“Yes, thanks to Your Majesty. The tablets saved our lives many times. But we also had to pass through freezing mountains, torrents of rain, dangerous deserts.”

The Great Khan’s eyes grew serious. “And during that time, what was the most challenging obstacle you faced?”

Marco paused. His forehead had an amiable way of smoothing out when he thought. One word escaped his lips. “Bandits.” His green eyes sparkled.