Daughter of Xanadu (9 page)

“My foreigner has green eyes,” I said proudly, sitting next to my cousin. “And his hair is brown but shines red like fire in the sunlight. No turban, though.”

“Temur’s foreigner has a turban, too. He’s Bactrian. Fierce-looking.”

Temur was still standing, leaning on his sword, regarding us from above.

“These foreigners,” said Suren. “What can we possibly learn from them?”

“I told you,” said Temur. “The Khan wants us to keep an eye on them.”

Suren looked thoughtful. “But others are better suited to getting information from them. Maybe he wants to make sure we can resist foreigners even after talking to them.”

“Resist? Hah!” Temur shook his head in disbelief. “Their countries are too weak to face us in battle, so they come here, begging favors and spying on us. They keep trying to weaken our resolve to fight. I can’t wait till the Khan bans them from court.”

Suren frowned. “Bans them? The Khan would never do that.”

“You haven’t heard? Some men at court want to get rid of the foreigners,” Temur said. “Several of the princes and military leaders are starting an antiforeign movement, trying to convince the Khan that their presence at court is dangerous.”

Suren frowned. “How can foreigners be dangerous if they are weak?”

“They are clever. They write in strange script and send our secrets back to their homelands. They manipulate people. The movement is seeking evidence of treachery.”

I had never heard of this antiforeign movement. I wondered if Temur was exaggerating. Still, I realized I knew little about the many factions at court.

Suren shook his head. “My foreigner seems friendly enough.”

“Of course, they all do,” Temur said. “Don’t get taken in. They want you to forget about loyalty. We have to show how strong we are—not just our arms but our minds.”

This idea made sense. Joining an army of men would take a strong mind. But this antiforeign movement sounded just as dangerous as the foreigners.

Suren looked at me with concern. “Emmajin, you need to be careful.”

To break the tension, I jumped up, grabbed his sword, and raised it high above my head. It was even heavier than I had expected, and it wobbled in the air.

“Hai-yah! After the foreigners!” I ran into the woods, holding the sword high.

Suren chased me, to get his sword back. Swords are not meant for lighthearted play. But I couldn’t help myself. I did not want to think about dangerous foreigners.

T
o prepare for my next meeting with Marco, I tried to arm myself as if for battle. I didn’t want to be naive, as I had been on our first rendezvous. I had already given this foreigner a dagger he could use to threaten me if he wanted to manipulate me: the secret about my shooting down the eagle. I needed to find a way to win back the upper hand.

When I reported to my uncle, he clarified what kind of information he was looking for and asked me to learn some foreign words. He also warned me, “Next time, do not go so far away. Stay near other people.” It seemed sage advice.

A drip of sweat traced its way down my face. This time I had arranged to take Marco Polo to the Khan’s famous gardens. They were nearby and others would be there, but we would be meeting in the heat of the day, when most people slept. I needed to show confidence and wrestle some useful information out of the man.

That day, Marco looked nervous. “Emmajin Beki, good
afternoon. I was not sure you would come.” His hands shifted and his eyebrows twisted.

“Why not?” We had arranged to meet at that hour.

“There are rumors that the Khan is displeased with the foreign visitors at court. I hope no one will advise the Khan against allowing me to entertain him tomorrow.”

“I see no reason for that,” I said, acting confident but wondering if I had missed something. What had he heard about the antiforeign movement?

He relaxed. “You will tell me, I hope, if I do something to earn his disfavor.”

It had not occurred to me before then that this foreign man might feel scared and vulnerable. He was alone, far from home, his life at the whim of the most powerful ruler in the world. That thought should have made me feel more in control, but instead, I was concerned.

We entered the Khan’s gardens through a back gate, a round opening in the long red wall that surrounded the garden. Marco’s arm brushed against mine as he pointed to the top of the wall, built to curve like the back of a dragon serpent. My arm tingled, and I stepped away, answering his question with stiff propriety.

The minute we stepped over the threshold into the gardens, the air felt cooler, with shade trees everywhere. In Fifth Moon, the gardens of Xanadu sparkled with brilliant colors. The tender green of the willow leaves contrasted with the dark green of the pines. Frothy pink and white blossoms adorned the fruit trees, and the azaleas were just starting to break out in vivid reds and purples.

Marco and I walked along a small man-made lake covered with large pale-pink water lilies. Delicate pavilions and
stone pagodas rose at the ends of winding paths. Sparrows and swallows twittered and flitted from tree to tree. Like them, my heart was jittery. How could I act stiff and distant in such a lovely setting?

“Magnificent!” Marco gushed. “I have never seen such beauty.” He checked my face for my reaction to his compliments. I tried to keep from looking directly into his eyes.

As we walked, he asked me for the Mongolian names of various trees and flowers and birds.
So this is how you learn foreign words
, I thought. My uncle had asked me to study this man’s language, but I needed to find out more than the names of trees and birds.

Looking for a spot where I could question Marco without being heard, I led him up a stone staircase to a small six-sided pavilion, with benches around the inside. A chipmunk scurried away when we entered. The conversation would be like a wrestling match, and it was about to begin.

I indicated where he should sit, then sat down directly opposite him, as far away as possible. My back straight, my demeanor formal and proper, I noticed that his eyes shone, as if he was wonder-struck just looking at me. I struggled to recall the words I had practiced saying to the tent post the night before. Marco’s thick chest and arms distracted me.

Envisioning a helmet on my head and set of leather armor on my chest, I began to speak, more smoothly this time. “Latins are rare at the Khan’s court. Tell me how you came here from your homeland, so far away.”

He clasped his hands over his knee and thought for a moment, as if this were a conversation and not an interrogation. “As you know, my father and uncle came here many
years ago, and the Khan asked them to come back.” His eyes reflected the greenery of the garden around us. “My father left home on that journey just before I was born, in the year of our Lord 1254. When I was very small, my mother died.”

He seemed to have said this so many times he no longer felt it, but I felt a pang. Although many women died when their children were young, I knew that losing one’s mother so young was no small matter. It took energy to swallow my sympathy.

“I lived with my mother’s relatives. We did not receive letters from my father, so we assumed he had died. When I was fully grown, fifteen years after they had left home, my father and uncle unexpectedly returned. They said they had visited a prosperous land, far to the east, and met an emperor who ruled a vast empire far bigger than Christendom. When they described his riches and power, no one believed them.”

“No one believed? The Latins do not know of the Great Khan?”

“No. They know of the Mongols only as ‘Tartars,’ hordes of horsemen who rode from the East and attacked Christendom during my father’s youth. The Great Khan asked my father to deliver a letter to the Pope. The Pope responded with a letter, which we brought with us. We were not allowed to read it, but I believe the Pope demanded that the Khan promise not to invade Christendom again.”

It mystified me, why this leader of a small backward land, this Pope, would think he could demand anything of the Khan. This Pope sounded ignorant, tactless, and confused. But Marco seemed to respect him. Marco’s arm was covered in light hair.

“My father commanded me to come with them,” Marco continued, “on their second journey to the heart of the Mongol Empire, to learn about trading.”

A flash in his eyes prompted me to ask, “Did you want to come?”

His laughter surprised me. “Do any of us get to do what we really want?”

“You didn’t want to travel, to learn your father’s business?” I had envied men because they had more opportunities than women did, but not all men had choices in life.

He smiled ruefully. “The life of a traveling merchant has its appeal, but my aunt often warned me of its dangers. I liked the idea of adventure, but I was a little sad about leaving behind everyone I had known.”

“A wife?” He was over twenty, so surely he had at least one wife.

He stopped smiling. “I wanted to marry, but my father insisted I travel instead.”

Shifting on the bench, sitting on my hands, I sensed he had left behind a woman he loved. I wondered if he thought about her when talking to me. I chose not to ask.

“I nearly died on the way, from sickness,” he said. “We had to stop for a year while I battled a fever. But God did not want to take me yet. So I am here.”

Nearly died. Sick for a year
. I had never given any thought, when seeing foreign travelers, to the life they had left behind, their difficulties, their loss and grief and fears.

“When will you go back home?” I asked, trying to fight my sense of sympathy.

“Not soon! We just arrived, exhausted after more than three years on the road. My father and uncle are still sick.
I hope they will get better soon so they can come to Xanadu and meet you. It will be months before we can think about traveling back.”

So the other two foreigners would be coming after all. I felt strangely disappointed at the idea of sharing Marco with them. At least he would not leave soon.

Our sparring match was not going well. Marco seemed to think we were becoming friends. Why did I keep forgetting that he was an alien, not to be trusted?

Even inside the pavilion, the heat was oppressive. Xanadu summers were usually not so hot. I wiped a bead of sweat from my face. “It’s terrible, this heat,” I said.

He smiled. “I come from a hot climate, so I like warm weather.”

The air between us shimmered in the heat. His manner, relaxed and candid, had a way of breaking down that protective barrier around my mind. I felt disarmed.

A murmur of thunder grumbled in the distance. Startled, I jumped up. I hated thunderstorms. I felt an urge to get out of Marco’s presence, lest I do or say something wrong.

“We need to go back before it rains,” I said. I strode off down a path along a winding wall. Marco looked surprised but followed.

As we were walking, I remembered my uncle’s order to learn some Latin words.

I stopped so abruptly that Marco nearly bumped into me. He pulled back, clearly aware of the need to keep his distance from the Khan’s granddaughter, and apologized profusely. He was so close I could feel his breath. I pulled back, too, embarrassed.

We were standing next to a pond covered with brilliant
green lotus leaves. Several flat-topped stones had been strategically placed so it was possible to cross the pond. Normally a popular spot, the banks of the pond were deserted now.

“Teach me some words of Latin,” I commanded.

Marco’s head tilted. “With pleasure,” he said. “What would you like to learn?”

I was tongue-tied. If I learned the Latin words for warfare, Khan, and weaponry, that would suffice for one day. What was it about that smile of his that flustered me?

“Our word for Tengri is ‘
Deus,
’ ” Marco began.

“Day-oos,” I repeated. “But your Deus is different from our Tengri?” Marco worshiped a different god, and I didn’t know what that meant about him.

“Some Christians would say so. But I believe there is only one God. People in each country and of each religion use different words for the same God.”

I nodded, trying to understand. It did not seem possible that Marco’s Deus commanded Chinggis Khan to conquer the world, but perhaps it was true. “A-a-and Great Khan?” I stammered. “How do you say that?”

“Hmm. We don’t have a Great Khan. But in the old days, the Romans used the word
imperator.
” His lips were wet, moving inside his beard.

My lips and tongue could barely get around this word,
imperator
. I was sure I would not remember it. The Mongolian word,
khagan
, was much easier to say.

Marco smiled wryly at my pronunciation. “Let’s start with something easier. Try this word:
amo.
”

“
Amo.
” This word was much easier.

Marco nodded. Then he did something that surprised me. He stepped onto a wide, flat stone in the lotus pond. The water reflected the thickening gray clouds.

He gestured to me. “Follow me. Repeat after me.
Amo.
”

I frowned. I hated water. With our roots in the grasslands, we Mongols are people of the earth, not the water. Yet this pond lay still and shallow, calmer than an old mare. And who was he to give me an order? Yet it sounded more like an invitation.