Daughter of Xanadu (7 page)

I leaned forward to hear better.

“Ah, bandits!” The Khan’s face lit up in anticipation. “I would like to hear this story. I command you to tell it to me.” A servant refilled his golden goblet, then ours, and the Khan settled back in his fur-covered seat to listen.

Marco began, tentatively at first. “It was a band of … Caraonas.”

I had heard of these fearful men, Caraonas, bandits born of Mongol fathers and Persian mothers, not accepted in any society. Outlaws.

“We were traveling in a caravan of fifty men, on camels.
We came to a vast plain, in Persia, on our way to the … to the … big water.” He squinted at the Khan as if hoping the Khan would provide the word he was looking for. But the Khan just listened.

Marco swallowed hard and continued. “Most towns there have high walls, built to defend against the Caraonas, who have … who have hurt people there for many years.”

As he spoke, Marco’s manner changed. His posture straightened as his uncertainty dropped away, and confidence took over his voice.

“These Caraonas have a certain magic,” Marco continued. “They can bring darkness over the face of day, so that you can scarcely see your comrade riding beside you. They ride abreast, as many as ten thousand of them, spread across the whole plain. Like hunters, they catch every living thing they find. They butcher old men. They capture young men and women and sell them as slaves. Thus the whole land is ruined, a desert.”

As he spoke, I thought,
Can I handle this assignment, gathering intelligence from this foreigner?
Like it or not, I had to do what the Khan had commanded me.

Marco seemed to get lost in his story. “One day, as we were crossing the plain, night fell at midday. We could hear the pounding of horses’ hooves. The Caraonas galloped at us a thousand strong, in the darkness. Everyone panicked. My uncle, my father, and I were near the back of our caravan. We turned and headed to a nearby village. Our camels, struck with fear, ran fast as horses.”

Listening to the foreigner’s deep voice, I forgot his odd appearance and imagined myself riding on a camel, beset by sudden darkness, fleeing from murderous bandits.

“The village had locked its gates,” Marco continued, “but we pounded, and they let us in. Only when I was inside did I know that my father and uncle had made it, too. Those who came later were not allowed in. They screamed as the bandits butchered them. Of the fifty men in our caravan, only seven of us escaped. We knelt down and thanked God for sparing our lives.” He used the Mongolian word for God:
Tengri
.

Marco finished speaking. I had almost stopped breathing during the story. It was a shock to come back to the present. For an unending moment of silence, I wondered if this foreign man had spoken too much. Most people say little in the Great Khan’s presence until they are certain where they stand.

The Khan stared at Marco with narrow, piercing eyes. The Empress, who had been listening with interest, looked at the Khan as if curious to see his reaction. Then the Khan beamed. “Well done! You were so quiet at our official meeting yesterday, I had no idea that you have talent as a storyteller.”

Marco bowed his head. “I speak your language poorly.”

The Khan laughed. “You speak better than many at court. In a few days, I will dine with several of my men. You will entertain us with a story.”

The young foreigner seemed flustered but honored. “At your service.”

The man’s storytelling amazed me. All my life I had looked up to military men. This Latin had no ability in the manly arts. Yet he was an artist with the spoken word.

Intelligence gathering was not a role I had ever envisioned, and I did not excel at talking. But the Khan had entrusted me with an assignment. I would have to try my best.

O
n the third day, we arrived at our summer home in Xanadu. A few days after that, I armed myself for my first meeting alone with Marco Polo. I brought my bow and arrows, both hanging from leather straps on my waistband. While I did not intend to use them, I wanted the foreigner to see me as formidable.

My uncle Chimkin told me where to find Marco Polo’s tent. I was to treat the green-eyed man as a guest and to see him every day. Without arousing his suspicion, I was to gather information about the kings and princes of his land—how they maintained their dignity, how they administered their dominions, and how they went forth to battle. After each meeting, I was to report back to my uncle.

Overnight, it had rained heavily—the kind of weather that made Xanadu into a garden spot. As I walked across the wet grass, the sunlight angled through the clouds. Still, my hair stuck to my head. The rain had washed much of the
white powder off my cheeks, exposing my bruises, which were fading to yellow. A bruised face might protect me against unwanted advances.

The Latin was standing outside his tent, looking toward the low row of hills that surrounded Xanadu. When he heard my footsteps behind him, he whirled around, and his hand reached for his dagger. “Who goes there?” he asked.

My hand rushed to my own dagger, and my heart quickened. I was face to face with a dangerous, armed foreigner. Then I shook my head, appalled at his slow reaction. If I had ill intentions, he would be dead by now.

When he realized who I was, his face broke into a smile of relief and pleasure. “Emmajin Beki. I am honored.” He replaced his dagger and bowed in his Latin way, one hand in front, one behind. “What brings you here this morning?”

I took a deep breath. “The Khan has asked me to host you here in Xanadu, to show you the grounds.”

He grinned too broadly at this news.

I set my mouth in a firm line, and his smile faded.

“You would prefer not to?”

“I do as the Great Khan asks.”

He seemed ill at ease, as if disappointed and uncertain what to do or say.

Not only was this the first time I had had a direct conversation with a foreigner, but it was also the first time I had spoken to a man not related to me without my family present. I didn’t even know what to call him. Almost every man I knew was a relative, called uncle or brother. I needed to show him I was in command. “Today, we will ride in the hills.”

He bowed his head, appropriately humble. “As you wish.”

“Leave your dagger here,” I said. He dropped his weapon just inside his tent.

Relieved to be moving, I turned and strode toward the horse pasture. The foreigner hastened to catch up to me, but I stayed one pace ahead. I had decided to take him riding, because it would be easier to keep my distance from him on horseback.

We reached a spot where several horses were tethered to a rope stretched high between two poles. I told the horse boy to saddle up my palomino stallion as well as a tawny mare for the visitor.

The Latin man stood awkwardly by my side, his breath at the level of my ears. I could smell a strange perfume of pungent cloves on his curls. It felt wrong to stand so close to a foreign man. Once I had mounted Baatar, I felt much more comfortable.

But Marco hesitated. “I’ve never ridden on a Mongolian saddle,” he said. How strange. I looked at the wooden saddle, its familiar curved shape high in the front and back, painted red with silver medallions. What kind of primitive saddle did this man use?

He fumbled, trying to mount. I could not fathom how this man had traveled for three years from the end of the world and never learned how to ride on a proper Mongolian saddle. I had learned to ride before I could walk.

Once on the horse, he kicked her in the sides! The mare flinched. Didn’t he know it was wrong to kick a horse? I reached over to his steed and steadied her with a hand on her neck. “What are you doing?” I asked.

His weird eyes registered uncertainty.

With the familiar cry of “Tchoo! Tchoo!” I urged Baatar
forward across the grasses, and the tawny mare followed. Baatar and I moved fluidly together, as if he could read my thoughts. I quickly broke into a trot, then a lope, checking to see if the Latin was following. He was hanging on to the wooden saddle and smiling gamely at me. I headed for the foothills and slowed as we started up a well-known trail.

The morning’s rain had left diamonds in the grass, and I brushed against wet branches that sprayed me with sparkling drops. I luxuriated in the first warm rays of sunlight on my hands and face.

As we rode, single file, mostly uphill, I silently rehearsed the questions I would ask of this man. If I could get all the needed answers quickly, perhaps the Khan would let me return to my usual life, with hours to spend on archery and horseback. I had hoped Suren and I could begin preparing for military training that summer.

Soon we approached a clearing overlooking Xanadu from the hills just north of the walled city. I jumped off my horse and tied him to a nearby tree. Marco Polo did the same. Then I led him to the edge of the clearing for the best view.

From this vantage point, we could see the whole of Xanadu. The palace sat on a wide plain surrounded by high hills visible along the horizon. Much of the plain was forested, a semi-wild park of trees and grasslands and natural streams. These woods, a hunting preserve for the Khan, contained many deer and foxes. From above, we could see how the thick outer walls of Xanadu formed a huge square. Inside was a small town for servants and guests, as well as the Khan’s famous fabulous gardens. Brooks, hillocks, bridges, pavilions, twisting pathways, and artificial lakes all glistened in the intense sunlight.

I sighed. It was like a fantasyland, a place I had longed for during the cold winter.

At the heart of this square was a smaller square, formed by high stone walls topped by turrets. Inside this inner, “forbidden” city were the golden roofs of the palace, a smaller and leafier version of the massive imperial palace in Khanbalik. The main hall, raised on an artificial hill, was pure white marble, shimmering and smooth. It faced due south, as all major doors do, toward the sun, away from us.

Other buildings inside the inner walls were pavilions of painted wood with golden roofs, set amidst tree-shaded courtyards. Each building was positioned carefully on a straight north-south, east-west axis, in the Chinese imperial style. But one large courtyard was dotted with round white tents, our distinctive Mongolian
ger
s. They reminded everyone of the old days, when our ancestors were nomadic herders and warriors, traveling freely. The Khan had insisted that the floors of the palace at Xanadu be made of packed dirt, to keep him connected to the earth.

Overhead, an eagle soared. An exhilarating breeze blew my hair about my face. I hoped the magic of Xanadu would make this day go well.

The foreigner gazed at the panorama below, as if drinking in every detail. “My father told me of this place, but I could not imagine it. I thought the Mongols lived on horseback, moving their tents from place to place.”

“That’s true.” I pushed myself to speak. “We Mongols are hunters and herdsmen, with no tradition of fixed palaces. We do not eat plants or dig in the dirt.”

He turned back to me, his face radiant with joy. Those eyes looked clear and empty. I wondered if they could see
more than dark eyes saw. He looked innocent, but my grandmother had hinted that he was not safe. The time had come to begin my mission.

I led him to a grassy spot and spread a goatskin on the ground. I put my bow in the middle, a clear boundary between me and the foreigner. I sat on one side, and he sat on the other. I kept the sharp-tipped arrows behind me, so he could not reach them.

I got out a leather pouch with dried milk curds in it and offered him some to eat. He tossed a milk-curd cube into the hole in his beard where his mouth was. A frown creased his forehead and he chewed as if trying to make up his mind about it.

“Very good,” he said, smiling as if eager to please. He was not good at lying.

Such curds were meant to provide energy on a journey and were not particularly tasty. I ate in silence, rehearsing my first question.

“What do you hope to get from the Khan? What are your intentions?” As soon as I spoke, I knew I had been too blunt.

Marco examined my face before responding soberly. “I will be frank with you, Princess. My father and uncle handed all our precious trading commodities over to the Khan, as is required. If I can gain his favor, perhaps he will give us, in return, goods of great value to take back to our homeland.” So this was the way merchants worked. Not buying and selling with coins, but taking their chances with the Khan’s goodwill.

“How will you gain his favor?”

“By serving him, entertaining him in the most appealing possible way. Perhaps you can let me know if you hear any reaction to my storytelling?” It occurred to me that Marco Polo
was also using me. His success depended in part on his connection with me.

His odd eyes seemed bluish green in this setting. I suspected that they could see inside my mind. It made me uncomfortable. I needed to press on.

“Tell me again,” I said “What is the name of your homeland?”

“Venezia,” he said.

“Way-nay-sha,” I said, trying to pronounce it. I could barely get my tongue around the strange sounds. How could I remember it? “How big and powerful is it?”