Daughter of Xanadu (11 page)

The men tried to get their tongues around the word and ended up mocking the bizarre sound of it. “Tell us about Way-nay-sha,” the Khan commanded.

Marco placed his hands on the table as if to steady himself and control his anxiety. “Venezia—Way-nay-sha—is a city of water,” he began.

“It is built on small islands. Its roads are made of water. Bridges of marble-stone cross the … the water-roads.”
He struggled to find the right words in Mongolian. “We have special boats—long and slender. Men push them with long poles. Sometimes, at night, these men sing songs that are very …” He seemed unable to find the right word in our language. “Very pleasant to hear.”

I tried to imagine Khanbalik’s wide avenues flooded with water. How horrible to have streets made of something as unreliable as water. Marco looked at me, as if for encouragement. My cheeks flushed, and I looked down. He was showing courage, I realized. I could never have stood before a foreign king and told a story in his language.

“No one has been able to defeat Venezia, because on all sides she is protected by the sea,” he continued. “In fact, she loves the sea. Once a year, our leader goes out in a boat and tosses a golden ring into the water, to symbolize Venezia’s marriage to the sea.”

“An excellent addition,” said the Khan in a quiet voice, “to our Empire.”

My eyes darted to Marco, who did not seem to have heard this comment. But Chimkin nodded to the Khan with a smile, as if accepting the Khan’s order.

Something was happening under the surface that evening, and I was part of it. With his big round eyes, Marco apparently had no idea. My skin trembled with a chill.

“We Mongols are men of land,” the Khan said, more loudly, to Marco. “And you were raised in a city of water. Perhaps you can never truly communicate with us.”

Marco bowed his foreign bow. “I would be honored if you would let me try.”

“Entertain us with a story,” the Khan ordered.

Marco stood tall and took a deep breath. “Tonight I will
tell you a tale I heard during my travels. It is about a woman named Ai-Jaruk, daughter of King Khaidu, ruler of the western desert and the grasslands beyond.”

Marco let his eyes rest briefly on my face, as if implying that he had chosen this story about a woman to please me. I squirmed.

The Khan’s faced hardened. Khaidu was his fiercest rival, a distant cousin who claimed the right to the throne. No one dared to bring up his name in Khubilai’s presence.

Marco seemed oblivious to the shift in mood. Clearly, he had practiced this tale. “Stunning she was, with a round face and shimmering black hair. Her parents named her ‘Bright Moon’ in the Turkic language of the western grasslands. Twice as big as an ordinary child, she grew up strong as an ox, swift as a deer, free as a wolf.”

Strong as an ox, swift as a deer
. I leaned forward, eager to hear this story.

“No Mongolian damsel before or since,” Marco continued, “has excelled at the manly arts as did Ai-Jaruk. When she rode, the swiftest horse ran twice as fast. The arrows from her bow flew three times as far.” Marco looked at me. “So strong were her muscles that by the age of twelve she could toss her wrestling master to the ground.”

The men grumbled and shifted. Mongolian women are free to race and practice archery, but they are not supposed to wrestle. As a small child, I had learned the Mongolian style of wrestling, head to head, but I had stopped practicing in recent years.

Through the eyes of the Khan’s men, Marco looked woefully ignorant, if not rude. The admiration I had begun to
feel for him wavered. How had I been so weak as to fall under his spell?

Still, I wanted Marco to succeed. This was his big chance. His future, and that of his father and uncle, depended on pleasing the Khan that night. I should not care, but I did.

“When she reached adulthood, Ai-Jaruk’s parents beseeched her to let them give her hand in marriage. But she declared that she would consent only if a prospective suitor could defeat her in a contest of strength. Any man who dared to challenge her would forfeit one hundred horses if he could not best her.”

One hundred horses! Imagine, a young woman that skilled at wrestling. And she defied her parents’ wishes!
I thought. Marco seemed to sense that my interest was intensifying.

He smiled. “Noble young men from many tribes came to take up the challenge, bringing horses. One by one, she threw them to the ground. Month after month, they came and she defeated them. Within a few years, she accumulated ten thousand horses.”

I sat back, smiling.
Ten thousand horses! Victory after victory! A woman defeating men!
Ai-Jaruk sounded superb. Maybe hearing this story would make the Great Khan want to have a strong, capable woman in his branch of the family, too.

“Finally, one day, a pleasing young prince showed up. He was strong, skillful, and so sure that he wagered one thousand horses. King Khaidu welcomed the prince, son of a wealthy king whom he desired as an ally. He ordered Ai-Jaruk to let this man defeat her so that she might have an excellent husband. ‘If he is worthy of me, he will win in a fair contest,’
she declared. ‘I will not pretend to be weak and grant him a false victory.’ ”

Fortunately, Marco looked at the Khan, not at me, when he said that. All these men were fathers, and they did not like to hear of daughters who did not obey. But Ai-Jaruk’s pride and defiance sent a thrill up my back. How could Marco know me so well?

“Hundreds came from distant pastures to watch Ai-Jaruk’s biggest wrestling match. The contest began. The pair seemed evenly matched. They grappled. Each countered the other’s move.”

I gripped the edge of my seat. I felt as if I were in the crowd, watching the contest.

“The onlookers cheered as the bout lasted three times as long as most. Suddenly, Ai-Jaruk threw the prince to the ground and won! As she danced the eagle victory dance, her parents sat in shock. The prince departed, leaving behind one thousand horses.”

Around me, I heard many sharp intakes of breath. But I sat tall, flushed with victory, as if I had earned the thousand horses myself.

“After that,” Marco continued, “no one challenged Ai-Jaruk again. Proud of her strength, her father allowed her to accompany him to all his major battles. In recent years, she has often been seen fighting valiantly by his side. In the lands of the West, lands I traveled through, tales are often told of the skill and valor of the Bright Moon of the Desert West, Princess Ai-Jaruk.”

Marco stopped. Silence filled the hall. I felt exhilarated. I didn’t care what these men thought. This woman had won
her freedom! She had succeeded in doing what I wanted badly—to fight in battles! Still alive, she had already become a legend.

From that moment, I wanted more than just the chance to join the army. I wanted to become a legend.

But the Great Khan did not move. The story glorified a woman—a Mongolian woman who disobeyed her father. A woman who defeated men in public. A daughter of Khaidu, a kinsman who defied the authority of the Great Khan. I wondered if the Khan had heard of Ai-Jaruk before. How true was Marco’s tale?

The Khan turned to me. “What do you think of this story, Emmajin Beki?”

My face flushed. My enthusiasm had been too obvious. Now the Khan of all Khans was asking me to speak in front of these men, to give my opinion. Could I be as articulate as Marco—and as courageous?

Slowly, I stood up, scanning the faces of the men and finally turning to the Khan. I had never been good with words or good at thinking quickly. So it seemed forever before the words formed in my mind. By the time I spoke, every man was staring at me.

“O Khan of all Khans,” I started. “Someday, I …” My words caught in my throat. I wanted them to ring out, loud and clear, but they came out soft yet firm. “I would like to be like Ai-Jaruk. I would like to fight.”

The Khan threw back his large head and guffawed.

“Like Ai-Jaruk!” he said. “Huge, ugly. Thick arms, wrestling men to the ground!”

The men laughed, too. I felt like a fool. Here I was,
dressed in green silk embroidered with gold flowers, looking slender and slight, with strings of pearls hanging from my headdress. Who could imagine me fighting?

“Ah, pretty Emmajin!” the Khan said with a merry twinkle in his eye. “We don’t need any Ai-Jaruks here.”

His men roared. Chimkin seemed amused, looking at me as if I were a silly child.

My face burned. To me, Ai-Jaruk was inspiring. To them, she was an abomination, a big-muscled woman trying to act like a man. I felt like storming out of the room. I felt like pummeling someone, preferably the Khan of all Khans.

Marco’s eyebrows twisted with sadness and concern. I did not want his sympathy. I wished I could toss a golden goblet across the table and smash him in the face with it.

But I could not. I had to sit there and smile, pretending that I enjoyed the joke, that I agreed with their scornful laughter. Thanks to Marco’s choice of story, I had become part of the entertainment.

When the laughing died down, the Khan turned to his men. “The hour is late. This Latin storyteller, has he captivated you? Shall we ask him to return and tell another tale?”

Chimkin nodded. “Yes!” the men shouted.

Marco bowed in the Italian style, one hand before him and one behind. “I am honored,” he said, though no one could hear him amidst the noise.

“Next time, though,” said the Khan, his voice stern, “tell us a story from your homeland, not one about Mongols.”

Marco Polo had been invited back, to entertain the Khan again. Despite several missteps, the evening had been a great success—for him.

But for me, having expected to be a silent observer only, it
had been a disaster. Ai-Jaruk had won the right to fight by defeating dozens of suitors in wrestling, with her big thick arms. What could I possibly do, with my strong but slender arms? If the Khan was going to make an exception and let a woman fight as a soldier, he would not do it for me simply because I had asked, or because I was his eldest granddaughter.

After the banquet ended, I rushed home and changed into an old, loose
del
. Then I ran and ran, through the Khan’s gardens, out the back gate, to the Khan’s hunting woods. My feet pounded my anger into the ground.

Finally, panting, I stopped at the side of a man-made lake. The water reflected the moon, round and white and full, shimmering and bright with cruel promise.

Bright Moon!
I thought.
Moon of Xanadu, Moon of the Desert West. Someday they will not laugh at me. Someday I will prove to them that in my own way, I can be as strong as Ai-Jaruk. Yes, even a legend
.

If Marco Polo had aimed to please me, he had miscalculated. Instead, he had exposed me as a weak and foolish girl, a dreamer. How had I ever found him attractive?

T
he next day, I sent a servant to tell Marco Polo that I was not feeling well and would not meet him in the afternoon. Alone, Baatar and I rode into the hills as far as we could go. We galloped till Baatar frothed at the mouth.

The more his hooves pounded into the ground, the greater my anger grew. The Khan might as well have vowed, in front of his men, not to let me become a soldier. They had laughed at me. It had been Marco’s fault. By captivating me with that story of Ai-Jaruk, by playing into my pride and my desire to become a legend, Marco had exposed me. Maybe I was foolish to think I could ever become a legend. But what right had Marco Polo, a Latin merchant, to cast me in such a light? If the Khan closed off this possibility, I had no future. If Ai-Jaruk could go to war, why couldn’t I?

I needed to salvage my reputation, to make the Khan think highly of me again. There was only one way: to fulfill the Khan’s assignment. To find out something vital and
valuable about Marco’s homeland, some weakness we could exploit. We would invade his precious Venezia. That would teach him.

So far, he had not said one thing that was useful for military strategy. I suspected he was hiding something. I could not imagine that he had come this far merely to trade. Surely his Pope would not have sent the Polos so far away without trusting them with valuable information. That was what my uncle had led me to believe.

To get him to talk, I needed to regain the upper hand, just like in wrestling. I needed to make it clear that he should not touch me again, on the shoulder or hand or anywhere else. It was not proper. He needed to learn respect, the Mongol way.

The following afternoon, I could no longer delay. It was time to see Marco.

Wearing the plainest
del
I owned, I chose a much different place to walk. Just outside the eastern gate of Xanadu stretches a large patch of grassland, wide and open to the sky. The land had originally been forested. Before my grandfather became Great Khan, when he had been a minor prince, he had ordered the trees felled to build a small palace and walled city there. When his elder brother, Mongke Khan, died suddenly of disease, my grandfather took over as Great Khan. After that, he built a new capital for the Mongol Empire, Khanbalik, and Xanadu became his summer palace.