Daughter of Xanadu (10 page)

“I will explain.
Amo.
” He smiled, as if walking across water were as natural as riding a horse.

He offered his hand. I looked around, to make sure no one was watching. Such playfulness was improper, a waste of time—and incompatible with my serious mission.

It felt like a dare.

“
Amo.
” Tense and uncertain, I followed him to the stepping stone, trying hard not to take his hand or brush against him. “But I don’t …”

“
Amas.
” Quickly, he stepped to the next stone. He seemed so enviably free, so naturally open, so unrestrained by rigid rules. Far from intimidating or dangerous.

“
Amas.
” I followed him. Suren and I had played like this, years ago.

“
Amat.
” Marco leaped to the next flat stone, almost losing his balance.

“
Amat.
” My heart lightened. These words sounded ridiculous, almost the same.

Amamus, amatis, amant
. By the sixth step, we were safe on the other side of the pond, on firm ground. I had crossed the water without getting wet. Or touching him.

I laughed in spite of myself. “But what does it mean?” This was not a proper way to learn a language, and it didn’t sound like a proper language, either.

He bowed to me in his strange style. “It means ‘love.’ I love. You love. He loves. We love. All of you love. They love.”

I squirmed. In Mongolian, there is one word for “love” and “like,” so it did not seem an odd word to teach. Still, it was awkward, not something any Mongol man would ever say. I suspected Marco was making fun of me. “All of those words mean ‘love’?”

“Listen carefully. I love.
Amo.
” Marco stepped back onto a flat stone in the pond. By then the clouds were darkening. I needed to cut this odd language lesson short and take him back to his
ger
before it started to pour. But I didn’t want to.

“I love.
Amo.
” I hesitated, but he refused to go on until I followed him onto the stepping stone. Besides, it was the quickest way to get back. The Latin word sounded soft compared to guttural Mongolian ones. I liked the feel of it on my tongue.

“You love.
Amas
.”

“You love.
Amas
.”

“He loves.
Amat.
”

I repeated and followed him across, feeling foolish and flushed in the heat. On
amant
, as I stepped onto dry land, I almost slipped and he caught my hand. As soon as I steadied myself, I looked at him. He held my hand for a moment longer.

All my senses went on alert. His eyes were shimmering, and his smile, deep inside his beard, was a little crooked. In this garden setting, Marco acted like a perfect gentleman, courtly and well mannered, suave and witty. Not barbarian at
all. Still, touching his hand was forbidden, wrong. I looked at our hands and he let go.

He stepped back to give me space, dipping his head in a quick bow, but he regarded me with admiring eyes. “In my homeland, there is a kind of love called courtly love. A warrior offers his services to a royal lady and dedicates his life to her.”

This concept was alarming but intriguing. “A lady who is not his wife?”

Again, he bowed his head, as if in deference. “It is love from a distance.”

Love from a distance
. I trembled. This conversation had lunged off course, into perilous territory. How could I get his mind off love? I licked my lips and tried to think quickly. “How do you say ‘God loves the Great Khan’?”

He smiled as if he could see through me. “
Deus amat imperatorem.
”

I tried it, but mangled the words. Our joint laughter sounded musical.

“One more word,” he said. “
Bella
. It means beautiful. You are beautiful.”

My cheeks felt hot. Perhaps where he came from, Italia, such compliments from men were natural. But no Mongol man spoke this way. Lovely. I wanted to look away, but something in his eyes kept me gazing at him. His pupils were black, and the green was deeper now, a perfect ring, flecked with yellow. For the first time I thought them not odd and empty but bright and attractive.

A loud clap of thunder startled us. I looked at the sky with alarm. Thunder meant lightning, which meant danger. Every Mongol knows that when the grasslands are dry, one
lightning strike can set off a fire that can kill people and animals for miles.

The first raindrops hit my head. A storm was invading Xanadu.

“Run,” I said.

I began sprinting toward the garden gate, and Marco chased after me. The rain pelted us. I was running to escape the rain, but more than that, I needed to flee from the feel of his fingers and the gaze on his face at the pond.

I had let down my guard. Again. I had let him manipulate me. How could I ever hope to be a soldier when I was so weak and naive? I was failing the Khan’s test.

But my mind savored this peculiar, perilous concept: courtly love.

T
he next day, a servant delivered to me a striking green
del
embroidered with floral designs in pearls and gold thread. The fastenings, at an angle from the high-collared neck to the right shoulder, were knots of thick gold thread. With this robe came a pair of green silk pants and a sash of gold brocade.

This luxurious outfit arrived with an order to attend the Khan’s banquet that evening. The Khan had invited Marco to entertain him with a story, and he commanded my presence. This request was a great honor, as royal women never dined with the Khan and his men, and they seldom were invited into his banquet rooms at all. It made me worry, though, what the Khan expected of me.

I liked the idea of watching Marco perform and seeing how the Khan and his men interacted with him. The previous night, in bed, I couldn’t stop thinking about the touch of his hand and his ideas about courtly love, but that felt wrong,
totally improper for someone preparing to become a soldier. The Khan knew how to behave around foreigners, with their strange ideas. I hoped to learn from observing him and lessen my confusion.

My sister could not contain her envy. Drolma and my mother had arrived in Xanadu on the same day I had, and Drolma had expressed horror at my assignment of hosting a foreigner. Now that she saw this elaborate robe delivered to the large
ger
where we lived each summer, her opinion changed. “I wish I could go,” she said.

Drolma had never worn such a fine garment, and she tried it on before I did. It was too long for her. My mother, delighted by this honor, took care to dress me like a true princess. She oiled my long hair to make it stiff and arranged it on top of my head inside a royal lady’s headdress. From the sides of the hat hung three strands of pearls in a loop across my upper chest, creating the illusion of necklaces hanging from my ears.

I hated all the fussing over my appearance. I preferred to look strong and competent, not lovely and delicate. But my mother insisted on covering the faded bruises on my cheeks with powder and rubbing essence of rose onto the back of my neck.

It was one of the few times the three of us had worked together. “Remember to smile,” my mother said. “Show her, Drolma.”

Drolma stood in front of me, drew her elbows in, dropped her eyes in false modesty, and blinked, a silly smile on her lips. A laugh burst from my mouth.

“Emmajin!” my mother remonstrated. “It will help you get what you want.”

“How would that help convince the Khan to let me join the army?”

My mother sighed. “Hold still,” she said, putting a dab of red on my lips.

The banquet took place in a smaller cane palace, erected every summer in the Khan’s garden. By design, the cane palace resembled a large Mongolian
ger
, with crisscrossed tent walls made of gilded bamboo rods thick as a man’s arm. Instead of being the usual ten paces across, this round palace measured at least a hundred paces across.

As I entered, all conversation stopped. The Great Khan and his men turned to watch me. I walked as elegantly as I could and tried to ignore the pain from my sister’s tiny boots, which pinched my toes. Some men grunted in admiration.

“This lady could not be Dorji’s daughter, could she?”

The Khan pointed to a seat reserved for me, between him and my uncle Chimkin. My chair was set back slightly, as I was not expected to eat, but I could hear everything the Khan said. I wished I could be invisible, rather than arouse the appetites of these men. I had always tried to hide that I was a woman. Now I was being forced to look and act like a mindless, decorative princess.

The inside of the cane palace was stunning. Its rounded ceiling rose high, covered with a silk cloth dyed light blue like a summer sky. In the center was a large round table made of rosewood. I slid into my seat.

My foreigner, Marco Polo, was not there. For big occasions, the Khan sometimes held banquets for a thousand men. That night, only about twenty men were present, all clad like the Great Khan, in emerald green with gold threads and belts. The table glittered with goblets, bowls, plates, and
knives, all made of gleaming gold and etched with designs of wild beasts. The effect of the tableware in the flickering torchlight was dazzling.

The Khan lifted his goblet to drink, and the musicians began playing. As one, we lifted our goblets and held them to our foreheads until he had finished drinking. I took only a small sip, noticing that this
airag
was more intoxicating than usual.

“Where is this famed storyteller from the Far West?” one man asked.

“He probably lost his story inside that thick beard!” Prince Chimkin answered.

“Maybe it popped out of those bulging eyes!” another said.

Marco was keeping the Khan waiting. I could not imagine why. Clearly, some of these men did not share the Khan’s friendly feelings toward foreigners. Maybe I would learn more about who supported the antiforeign movement by observing these men.

Finally, a commotion in the courtyard interrupted the banquet. A servant rushed in and announced the arrival of our entertainer.

Marco Polo entered. He was dressed in fine green clothes but muddy and dripping wet. He prostrated himself to the floor and shouted, “Long-a live the Kaan of all Kaans!”

His outrageous late appearance shocked us all into silence.

“Arise.” The Khan’s voice sounded solemn.

Good!
I thought. Maybe Marco’s storytelling career would end before it began. If the Khan banished him from
court, maybe I could drop this assignment, forget my turmoil, and go back to daily training.

Marco stood up, dripping on the silk carpet. His wet beard and hair were plastered against his face, making his head look small. His eyes went straight to the Khan, then rested on me. He brushed a strand of wet hair out of his eyes, a pitiful attempt to make himself presentable. He looked miserable, and I felt sorry for him. The chance to entertain the Khan was a rare honor, and something had gone terribly wrong.

The Khan began to laugh. We all joined in.

“Behold, our visitor from afar!” the Khan boomed out.

After the laughter softened, Marco spoke. “I crossed many deserts to come here. So when I saw your lotus pond, I could not resist.”

We laughed again. Unfamiliar with the layout of the gardens of Xanadu, he had slipped and fallen into a pond. Yet instead of acting embarrassed, he used it to his advantage.

“Are you sure you did not take the sea route?” the Khan asked.

“If I had, I would have flooded all of Xanadu.”

I had never heard such hearty laughter. His thick accent, his odd expression, and his wicked smile made us laugh along with him.

“Perhaps you needed to douse the red fire of your beard,” said the Khan.

“My beard was black before I crossed the desert. The flaming sun turned it red.”

I could not believe it. Marco’s wit saved him from a situation that might have been fatal to his hopes. I wondered
how Marco could project this air of relaxed, humorous confidence when so much was at stake. Apparently, it was part of his entertaining skills, and very effective. Still, on Uncle Chimkin’s face, I noticed contempt.

“Bring our honored guest some dry robes,” the Khan said to a servant.

A short while later Marco emerged from a nearby room, dry and dressed in a bright green
del
. A gold belt cinched his waist, making his shoulders and chest appear broad and strong. Richly dressed like a Mongolian noble, he looked almost normal.

From his seat on the far side of the large round table, he glanced at me. His eyes twinkled with relief and mischief, mixed with admiration.
Love from a distance
, I remembered. Would his story be about courtly love? I hoped not.

A servant poured him a bowl of
airag
, and he drank deeply, as if enjoying our favorite drink of fermented mare’s milk. Maybe its buzz would relax him.

Soon the Khan said, “Young Latin, are you ready to entertain us? What do you call that city you come from?”

Marco stood up, looking serious and respectful as he began his work. “Venezia,” he said. “It is the finest and most splendid city of Christendom.”