Daughter of Xanadu (29 page)

The empress of South China, mother of the six-year-old boy emperor, had called in an astrologer when the Mongol
forces had surrounded Kinsay. The astrologer reminded her of a forecast her late husband, the emperor, had been told as a young man: only a man with one hundred eyes could rob them of their kingdom. Back then, the forecast had been seen as good news. But when the empress learned General Bayan’s name, which, when said in Chinese, sounds like “hundred eyes,” she surrendered and handed over the imperial seal.

Full of confidence, Temur seemed mature and articulate. With his slim body and handsome, wide-set eyes, he looked more the part of a crown prince than Suren had. I could see in their eyes how much the other soldiers admired Temur. Still, his manner was arrogant. He was too eager to step into Suren’s empty boots.

“Good news indeed!” Abaji slapped his thigh. “When is the victory parade?”

A pang shot through me. I had envisioned returning to Khanbalik as part of a victory parade. Now I was returning with a straggling group of soldiers, victors of a distant battle. Our hard-fought win on the plain of Vochan, against such great odds, paled in comparison to the conquest of all southern China. Would the Khan value our victory?

“General Bayan is on his way back from the South, bringing the empress and the young boy emperor. They should arrive in ten days or so.”

“Good. So we will arrive in time for the parade—and for the beheading.” Abaji’s voice sounded eager.

I shivered. A Chinese queen and her young son would now face the wrath of the Khan of all Khans. Their execution would send an essential message, I knew, a warning to all who dared to resist Mongol conquest, including the kings of
Burma and Zipangu. Sparing the enemy’s rulers was not an option. It would encourage others tempted to resist.

But to me, at that moment, the public execution of a woman and child in the streets of Khanbalik seemed barbaric.

K
hanbalik was brimming with a sense of pride in Mongol greatness. From the moment we rode into the capital under the huge arch of the south gate, with its curved blue roofs, I could feel the exuberance. Scattered crowds near the gate had been waiting for the arrival of General Bayan with the Chinese empress and her son. People surged forward to look at us, soldiers traveling under the Khan’s banner. It was hard to keep riding in formation, and Baatar shied and whinnied.

“General Bayan!” a man shouted in Mongolian, and more men moved forward.

“No, not yet!” one of Temur’s soldiers responded. “General Abaji, returning from a victory in the Southwest.”

“General Abaji, returning from the South!” someone shouted. The announcement was echoed in Cathayan, and a cheer rose around us.

Everyone seemed to realize that we were living at a
historic moment. It had been sixty years since Chinggis Khan began the conquest of China by sacking the northern Chinese capital of Yenjing, which later became Khanbalik. For decades, we Mongols had controlled North China. Now, with the conquest of Kinsay, his grandson Khubilai Khan had unified all of China, north and south, under Mongol rule. A new era was beginning, full of the promise of harmony.

General Abaji rode down the main avenue of the capital in a stately manner. Temur followed him, holding high the Khan’s white horse-tail banner. The rest of us followed in formation. The half-grown trees lining the sides of the avenue had been wrapped in silk strips of yellow and white, contrasting with the vivid spring green of the buds on their branches. Banners of red, yellow, blue, and white fluttered from the roof tiles topping the walls that lined the street.

The atmosphere was festive. Men, women, and children, Cathayans, Mongols, and foreigners mingled along the sides of the avenue, watching and pointing, raising their children to their shoulders, cheering and laughing.

“It’s Prince Temur!” one boy shouted.

“Temur! Temur!” others echoed in joyful voices. “Returned from the South!”

Finally, I was entering the city of Khanbalik in a victory parade, but without Suren. No one recognized me or shouted my name. Our triumph at Vochan had not won me celebrity. Instead, they cheered this man who had marched into Kinsay without a fight. After the horrors and losses of battle, I still did not get to enjoy the victory parade that Suren and I had desired so ardently. It felt like an insult to Suren’s memory.

I had hoped the Great Khan himself would greet us, but he was on his annual spring hunting trip. Abaji gathered us
just inside the palace gate, praised us for our service to the Khan in battle, and instructed us to return to our families for a rest of twenty days.

I dismounted, handed Baatar’s reins to a servant, and headed to my parents’ courtyard. Everything looked different to me. The great audience halls of the palace seemed larger and grander. But after seeing Nesruddin’s smaller, elegant palace by the lake, the Khan’s palace seemed ostentatious.

After months on the road, eating simple meals with my companions around open fires, riding with the wind in my face, wearing the same uniform day after day, the everyday luxuries of court life seemed excessive. On the road, we had talked of war and peace and the future of mankind. Here, people talked of minor spats and spread rumors of concubines who flirted with guards. My cheeks had grown ruddy from exposure to the elements, and here women rubbed lotions on their cheeks to keep them smooth.

As I walked toward the back of the Khan’s palace, no one greeted or recognized me. A hard spot around my heart began to throb.

When I entered my home, my mother rushed out to greet me. She grabbed both my hands as if I were still a young girl. The top of her head reached no higher than my nose. She leaned back and examined my face, my arms, my body, looking for wounds.

“Were you injured, my daughter?” she asked.

“No, not at all.” I squeezed her hand. “But … Suren …” Suddenly, I was weeping like a girl with a gaping wound that would never heal. It was the first time I had cried after Suren’s death. Here, at home, it was safe to mourn.

Small as she was, my mother embraced me, just above my
waist, and laid her head against my shoulder. She hugged me so tightly that my breath came in gasps. Her hair, flattened with a fragrant oil, exuded the flowery scent I remembered from childhood. I, too, hugged her so tight I thought I might squeeze the breath from her.

Drolma seemed happy to see me, but the gulf between us was wider than ever. During my absence, my parents had arranged a marriage for her, with Jebe, son of the general who had dismissed me.

“General Aju said I was exactly the kind of daughter-in-law he wanted,” Drolma told me with pride. I was bursting to tell stories, of the lion I had killed, of the dragon hunt, of the battle. But they didn’t want to hear of my adventures. Drolma only wanted to tell me the latest court gossip.

That night, I slept in my old bed with my sister. I retired early, overcome with six months’ worth of exhaustion. What had been the point of trying so hard to be a soldier, to fight like a man and keep riding day after day? Here I was, back where I had started, like a maiden who had never left her father’s
ger
. I had still been able to smell the pungent wind of the farmlands and the sweat of the army on my outer clothing. But once I’d taken my army clothing off and lain down under my sister’s quilt, all I could smell was her perfume. My body felt tired and heavy, yet my mind was swirling. I felt sad, bitter, lost.

The next morning, my mother handed me a square of silver. It was the Tara amulet from my father that I had cast aside nearly a year ago.

“Your father heard about Suren’s death. He wanted to make sure you were carrying this, from the goddess of mercy, to help you in your grieving.”

This time, I accepted the amulet. I needed whatever compassion was offered.

“He is at the monastery,” Mama said. “Go talk to him.”

After all I had been through, I was in urgent need of answers, and I no longer felt certain that my father’s choices had been wrong. For the first time in my life, I felt a pressing desire to learn from his wisdom.

A
fter resting a few days at home, I made the journey to the Buddhist monastery. It was a half day’s ride from Khanbalik, situated on a hillside overlooking the plains.

I was not sure what I wanted to hear from my father. I needed to fill this painful hole inside me, to find some meaning in life after the loss of Suren. I had to decide about my future, about the army and Marco. My father had never provided such wisdom for me before, and I was not sure I could speak honestly to him. But I sensed that he had deeper thoughts than he had ever expressed to me.

As I entered the front gate of the monastery, I breathed in the fresh mountain air, scented with the sweet smell of burning incense. This was one of the oldest Buddhist compounds in this part of Cathay, built almost a thousand years earlier. Each of the temples was spacious and imposing, with wise-looking Buddhas—past, present, and future—carved of wood. I wandered through a series of courtyards with twisted
pines and cypress trees, stone monuments called stupas, and rock formations. The atmosphere was one of quiet serenity and humble contemplation.

I saw a monk and asked him where to find my father, Prince Dorji. He understood Mongolian but did not speak it. He took me to the Hall of Guanyin, the goddess of mercy.

There, a nun, with head shaved bald, was kneeling and praying on the stone steps, facing the statue. She was wearing simple gray robes and chanting a stream of foreign words. I guessed they were Tibetan, since the sutras were written in Tibetan. The air was thick with the smell of incense.

The monk cleared his throat and waited. The nun seemed totally absorbed.

Finally, she stopped chanting, paused, stood up, and walked toward me. Her looks surprised me. She was young, with a smooth, broad face, round like a moon. She seemed vaguely familiar, but I had never talked to a nun.

“Yes? How can I help you?” She spoke clear Mongolian. This was odd. I had heard of Chinese and Tibetan nuns, but had never known a Mongolian to become a nun.

Only after the move to Khanbalik, during my childhood, were Mongols introduced to this foreign religion of Buddhism. By tradition, Mongols worshiped Eternal Heaven—Tengri—and Mother Earth. We built
ovoos
in sacred spots in nature and circled them, tossing stones onto them to ask for good fortune. Ours was not an organized religion with temples and texts. Some Mongol tribes were Christian, such as that of Khubilai’s mother, but few had adopted the Buddhist or Muslim religions. My grandmother Chabi was an exception, a Mongol who had become a devout Buddhist.

When I told the nun my name, she smiled and examined
my face carefully. “Ah, Emmajin! Follow me,” she said. She led me through a gate to another courtyard. At its center was a deep pool, surrounded by mulberry trees just beginning to bloom.

Inside a nearby room, my father was sitting cross-legged on a low bench, looking at some long, thin books laid out on a table. The pages were covered with curly connected letters arranged in neat rows. I could not imagine how they made sense.

Just seeing him, with his heavy-lidded eyes and deep under-eye shadows, brought back my feelings of bitterness. He had left my mother to fend for herself at court and showed no interest in me at all. What wisdom could I expect from him?

My father’s eyebrows rose, but he did not stand or approach me. Instead, he pointed to a low bench just opposite him. I sat there with my legs crossed. My father had shaved his head bald, too, and wore a simple monk’s maroon robe.

The nun poured some boiled water into a bowl and handed it to me to drink. She sat near the wall, watching like a chaperone.

“I hear you fought in a battle,” my father began. “I’m glad to see you alive.”

“But Suren,” I began. I choked, unable to continue.

He shook his head in sorrow. I was glad I would not have to explain. “Such a fine young man. You two were so close.”

I didn’t know what to say, and my words tumbled out. “I just wish I could … The battle wasn’t what I expected. Bodies everywhere. Even horses killed! And Suren … I saw … I never thought … I was so angry. I wanted revenge. Once I killed an enemy soldier, I couldn’t stop killing.”