Daughter of Xanadu (18 page)

“Beautiful sculptures,” I heard Marco comment to Abaji. “What is the name of this bridge?” I rode past them, averting my eyes, before I could hear the response. I imagined that Marco looked up and watched me as I passed.

I enjoyed the pleasures of travel familiar from my yearly journeys to Xanadu: the snorting of the horses, the sun on my back, the breeze on my cheek. I loved watching the countryside, and the new views from each hilltop delighted me. I was riding straight into the heart of Cathay, where Mongol soldiers were obeyed but not necessarily welcomed.

The first day was a relatively short journey—only thirty miles to the city of Cho-chau. We arrived at a hostel and rubbed down our horses. We were called to gather in formation in the courtyard, and Abaji addressed us.

“Most of you know Captain Todogen,” Abaji said. “He will be in charge of our group of fifty during this trip. He will name the sergeants.”

It was my young uncle, the one who had let me ride in the victory parade. I wanted to wave at him, or grin, but I knew better.

A tall man with the biggest ears I had ever seen, Todogen quickly named five men who would be sergeants, each in charge of a squad of nine men. It was the way the army was organized, in groups of ten, one hundred, one thousand. I had not expected to be chosen as a leader of nine, and I was not.

But Suren was chosen, and I was assigned to report to him. Suren had been promoted after a month’s service, and I still ranked at the bottom. Yet what Mongol soldier would report to a female sergeant? It strengthened my resolve to work harder than Suren did, to earn the respect of the men and the officers.

By dinnertime, I was hungry. For each meal, we were expected to sit with our squad of ten. That night, my squad and I sat at a table not far from General Abaji. As I had entered the hostel’s dining room, I had noticed that Marco, having no rank, sat with Abaji and Todogen. I was no longer the royal granddaughter but a low-ranking soldier.

The other men in my squad seemed honored to be associated with two members of the Khan’s family. They were not men I had known well in training, except for Bartan, the man who had challenged me on the first day. Bartan ignored me, but the others talked to me eagerly. I could see Marco and Abaji by slightly turning my head. I was too curious not to overhear part of their conversation.

“I am glad you speak Mongolian,” I heard Abaji say to Marco. “You Latins look like Persians and Saracens, with your yellow hair.” Abaji had a plump face and spoke in a pleasant tone that made his words seem welcoming. I knew that Marco considered his hair brown, but most Mongols called any hair that was not black “yellow.”

Marco smiled in response to his goodwill. “We consider ourselves very different from Persians and Saracens.”

“You all worship the same god, no? Muslim religion?” Clearly, Abaji had no knowledge of Marco’s people.

“Our religion is different, older. It is called the Religion of Light.”

Abaji laughed. “Yes, yes. The Khan is fond of you colored-eye people. You have a great reputation for storytelling. Perhaps you can entertain me during this trip.”

“You are too kind. I am hoping to learn more and talk less during this trip.” I loved hearing that deep voice with its lilting accent.

The first dish served was
mian-tiao
, a favorite of the Cathayans. It was a bowlful of long strings made of millet flour, flavored with beef broth, and eaten with bamboo sticks. The soldiers at my table laughed as they tried to use these sticks. Marco, too, seemed confounded by them. I watched as he fumbled the sticks and tried to get the
mian-tiao
into his mouth. The strings kept plopping back into his bowl, spraying his face with hot broth.

Abaji laughed. “It’s easier if you hold the bowl close to your face, like this.” Abaji picked up the bowl with his left hand and shoveled the
mian-tiao
into his mouth with the eating sticks in his right hand, slurping loudly. He had traveled widely in Cathay and was familiar with their customs.

Marco tried it that way but splattered his face with broth again. Suren picked the strings out one by one and held them over his face, dropping them into his mouth. I laughed.

Abaji asked Marco to compare the women of the West with the women of our country, and Marco said the women of his country had rounder breasts and bottoms. I felt rather
than saw Marco’s gaze dart involuntarily toward me, so I deliberately picked up a big wad of
mian-tiao
and shoveled it into my mouth with my fingers. The men at my table laughed at my antics, and I could not hear any more of Marco’s conversation.

Before long, I heard Abaji say the name Chinggis Khan, and the men around me grew quiet. “You have not heard that tale?” Abaji was saying.

“Tell me, please,” said Marco. “How did he use fire to capture the city?”

Abaji laughed a deep, pleasing laugh. “Chinggis Khan’s troops were besieging Volohai, a walled city in the Tangut kingdom of Western Hsia. The siege had gone on for many months, but the king had prepared enough food and supplies. Our men could not break the siege and enter the city. One day the Great Ancestor sent a message to the Tangut king: ‘We will stop attacking if you deliver to us all your cats.’ ”

“Cats? You mean, the kind that chase mice?” Marco seemed perplexed.

“Yes, cats. Useless, right? So the king rounded up all the cats and let them out at the front gate. The Mongol soldiers gathered them up, as best they could …”

“Herding cats is no easy task, even for Mongols!”

Abaji laughed. “Yes! Not like sheep. Chinggis Khan did not kill the cats. Instead, he commanded his men to tie an oil-soaked rag firmly to the tail of each cat. Then he set the rags on fire and let the cats loose.” Abaji smiled at the Great Ancestor’s cleverness.

Many of us who were listening laughed in delight at this familiar story. Marco looked sick.

“When cats are frightened, they always run home,” Abaji said. “These cats all found ways to run through that city wall, through small holes none of the Mongol soldiers knew about or could fit through. Within hours, the city was aflame. The citizens threw open the gates and ran out. By nightfall, Chinggis Khan’s troops had taken the city.”

“Good! Good!” the men shouted, and a serving woman from the hostel brought more
airag
.

Marco’s mouth twisted. Maybe he was imagining the city of Venezia burning. But that was absurd, since its streets were made of water. For the first time, hearing that story, I thought about the cat owners in the city, the people whose homes were burned. Watching Marco’s face, I thought the story sounded brutal.

At least Abaji did not tell the story of the capture of Nessa. When our army took that city, our troops herded the inhabitants together and ordered them to tie one another’s hands behind their backs. As soon as they were bound, the Mongols surrounded them and killed them with their arrows—men, women, and children, without discrimination.

Now that I knew more about Marco, I would have instead told him about the
Yasa
, the Supreme Law written by the Great Ancestor, and about his high moral standards. But my chance for private time with Marco was over. I was not sure when, or if, I would find a chance to talk with him again. I decided I should try to stay away from Marco. But the more I tried to put him out of my mind, the more I thought of him.

T
he next morning we set off early. It was the first day of a twenty-day journey west to the former Cathayan capital of Kenjanfu. From Baatar’s back, I could see that the land was fertile and carefully cultivated, with frequent towns and villages, but the people seemed poor and tattered. The once-rich land had been devastated by earlier wars. The Khan was trying to rebuild prosperity in this region. How would Marco view this poverty?

The journey was easy at first, a ride through farmland and woodlands and over rolling hills on well-tended roads, with excellent hostels in most towns. Marco rode at the rear, near the pack mules. He seemed to be deliberately avoiding me. When I tried to catch his eye, he looked away.

Each night at dinner, Marco sat with Abaji. The soldiers quieted when Abaji told inspiring military stories about the brave exploits of our predecessors. I could not read Marco’s reaction. I wanted him to understand our history from our
perspective. I wished he would charm Abaji with his storytelling, but he remained quiet.

At the end of each day, our troops held exercises so we would stay fit. Before dinner, we raced and practiced archery, and after dinner, we practiced swordsmanship. Occasionally, Marco watched, and I could feel his eyes on me. But he never approached me. Although I understood why he was avoiding me, I missed the way he had been during the summer, so deferential, so charming, so solicitous of me. This silence felt like a grievous loss.

During the long daily rides, I tried to remember Latin words. I reviewed each of the places in Xanadu where we had talked. Without considering the consequences, I tried to think of ways to talk to him, to overcome the barrier between us. If he had pursued me, I would have rebuffed him. By holding himself aloof, he challenged me to win back his esteem.

One night, less than ten days into the journey, an idea flashed into my mind. Captain Todogen raised his eyebrows when I told him of it, but he gave his permission. So I invited Marco to join our archery practice. I liked the idea that he might develop the manly skills that mattered to Mongols, but mostly I wanted a chance to interact with him. By reaching out to him and including him, perhaps I could make amends. My conscience still bothered me.

Marco refused, insisting he knew nothing of archery.

“Surely your people have bows,” I said in front of my squad mates.

“Not curved ones like yours. And merchants are not trained to shoot them.”

But I insisted, and the other soldiers seemed to like the
idea. It would provide entertainment on what had quickly become a routine journey. Suren agreed to the plan. One afternoon several soldiers went to get Marco, and suddenly there he was, standing before me.

“We found him
writing,
” said one soldier, laughing, as if that were the most ridiculous thing a man could spend time doing. Marco seemed embarrassed.

I showed Marco where to stand, at a precise distance from the target, next to me. He hesitated, then stepped into place. He was so close I could feel the air vibrating between us like a newly released bowstring.

“You hold it like this.” I demonstrated with my bow. “Then pull back, aiming up. Then bring the bow straight down, like so.” I shot an arrow, which hit the target but not perfectly. Marco’s closeness had again distracted me. The soldiers acted as judges, gathering around the target and showing with their hands how far my shot was from the center.

I handed Marco my bow. “Try.”

Marco caught my eyes with a slight frown, as if saying,
Why are you torturing me?
But he turned to the soldiers watching him. “My friends, I am a merchant, not a soldier.” In a kindly way, they urged him on.

Finally, he took my bow and fitted the arrow onto it. The arrow kept sliding down. I pointed to the spot on the string where it should go.

He pulled the string back with his forefinger, and the men laughed. I showed him the correct way, using the thumb to hold the string. He held the string with his thumb, but it looked awkward. I pushed his arrow up the bowstring. He shot me a look of warning, but I merely nodded approval.

He pulled back on the string, holding the arrow firmly in place and aiming at the sky, as I had done. He lowered the bow slowly, but it wobbled. I steadied his hand, touching him for the first time in months. He kept his eyes focused on the target.

He lowered his aim, squinted at the target, and let the arrow fly. It fell a few yards in front of him. The soldiers laughed affably.

Marco shrugged without smiling. “It takes greater strength than the bows used at home. Ours are longer and heavier, but not so tightly strung.”

I did not laugh. “This is the short bow, which we normally use on horseback.”

I handed him another arrow. I wanted him to win the admiration of these Mongol soldiers I had been trying to impress. Besides, he might need these skills where we were going. “Pull back harder. Bring your right hand all the way back to your cheek. Look straight at the target.”

Marco held the arrow and examined it. “Your arrows are lighter, too. They seem to fly farther than ours. Hollow reeds?”

I nodded. I didn’t want to discuss arrows. He held the bow properly this time, with the taut string digging into the flesh of his thumb. He pulled harder and aimed up, then lowered the bow. He let the arrow go and it fell sideways. The laughter was more boisterous this time. I felt a flash of anger toward the soldiers; I had aimed to make a man of Marco, not embarrass him. “You can do better. I know it.”

He shook his head but tried again. I could see the bow trembling as he drew the string taut. I put my hand lightly on the bow to steady it, then stood back. This time the arrow
flew true, straight toward the target, and hit the ground directly in front of it. The judges jumped forward and spread their arms as wide as they could, indicating he had missed by more than that distance. He looked at me for approval.