Daughter of Xanadu Part 12

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 a.s.sociated 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 G.o.d, 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 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 mian-tiao into his mouth. The strings kept plopping back into his bowl, spraying his face with hot broth. 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 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. 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 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. 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 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 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.

20 Archery Lessons

The 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, writing," said one soldier, laughing, as if that were the most ridiculous thing a man could spend time doing. Marco seemed embarra.s.sed.

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? 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. 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 embarra.s.s 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.

"Much better! Doesn't our Latin friend learn quickly?" I looked around at my colleagues, hoping they had not noticed the attraction between us. The soldiers murmured a.s.sent. Suren's face showed concern, but he did not stop me.

Marco stepped back, preparing to leave, and I turned to him again, addressing him so that others could hear. "I hope you'll keep practicing with us, Messer Polo. You will not find it difficult if you practice every day. You may need these skills for defense."

Marco nodded as if trying to sense the will of the men. I looked him straight in the eye and dared to give him my most charming smile, despite the onlookers. He seemed distrustful. He looked at Suren. "I do not wish to interfere with your training."

Suren was too much a gentleman to deny him. "You are welcome to join us," he said, though I suspected he felt otherwise. Marco bowed to us and went to his tent.

From then on, as we traveled, Marco joined our squad for a short time every afternoon for archery. His skills improved, though no one would ever mistake him for a Mongol archer. Each afternoon, I stood close to Marco, showing him how to hold the bow, showing him how to be a manly man any Mongol woman would admire.

Still, I did not talk to him alone. It was unseemly, and there was no need.

One afternoon, as I watched him miss the target arrow after arrow, I realized that I had been foolish. Marco did not have the heart of a warrior. None of the soldiers could talk to me about distant lands and cultures as Marco did; none had much to teach me, except Abaji. Instead of appreciating Marco for what made him unique, I had tried to mold him into a Mongol man.

Suren, my loyal, lovable cousin, saw what I was doing and could not fathom it. One evening, after dinner, he took me aside.

"Elder Sister, have you noticed? The other soldiers accept you now. Don't lose sight of your target. That foreigner may be dangerous." My body tensed. "When you look at him, all the soldiers are watching your eyes. They can see it."

"See what?"

"You know what I mean. You have worked too hard to become a soldier."

Suren's words. .h.i.t their mark. I had been fooling myself into thinking I was being kind to Marco. In reality, I was feeding my attraction to him. I was playing with fire.

That night, I again willed myself not to think of Marco. But my reveries had gone too far. What would the hair on his arm feel like? Was his beard soft? Was his chest hard? Such thoughts were wrong. My heart and my mind battled against each other, neither one able to win decisively.

One night, Abaji told us the story of how Chinggis Khan's two great generals, Subedei and Jebe, led the army westward around the Caspian Sea, using clever tactics to defeat the princes of Russia. Once they diverted a river and flooded a city. Often they would start a retreat and lure the enemy forces into a river valley surrounded by cliffs, only to block the enemy into the valley using a hidden rear guard of Mongol soldiers.

Marco's face showed little emotion as he listened to General Abaji tell his stories. One night, though, when other men were not paying attention, he spoke. "When I was a boy," he told Abaji, "everyone in Christendom feared the Mongol hordes. They were known for rape and murder and pillage."

Abaji laughed. "How little you knew! We had only a few hundred thousand troops, yet we conquered lands with millions of inhabitants. Fear was our best tactic."

"Surely some kingdoms resisted with great force?"

Abaji leaned forward, his face serious. "Every kingdom was given a choice: Cooperate, and we will spare you. Resist, and we will destroy you. Once people saw how fiercely we destroyed our enemies, they gave up without a fight."

"So that is how so few men could conquer almost the entire world?"

"Ah. That is the miracle, isn't it? Chinggis Khan and his commanders were the most brilliant military men in history. They hired local men to gather intelligence before entering each land. They sent the information back to headquarters quickly, using a highly organized system of horse riders. Mongol soldiers were well-trained archers, extremely disciplined. They used clever strategies to outwit much bigger armies. There has never been a leader like Chinggis Khan, and our army continues that tradition."

When Abaji spoke, Marco seemed fascinated. Who would not be? The story of Chinggis Khan's conquest of the world was the best ever told. Surely now Marco could understand why I had wanted to join this army, why the Great Khan deserved to rule the entire world. But remembering Marco's preference for peace, I began to have doubts again.

All those afternoons in the sun in Xanadu had gradually reshaped my view of the world, polluting my Mongolian idealism as surely as a cow pollutes a streambed. Even if I had not watched Marco's face during Abaji's stories, I probably would have heard them with different ears. But with Marco's foreign face before me as he tried hard to remain polite despite his distaste for our tactics, I was robbed of my central faith-faith in the absolute glory and wisdom of Chinggis Khan.

I began, despite myself, to look at all the familiar stories from the point of view of the vanquished, a dangerous angle of vision. I tried to resent Marco for opening my mind to this, but could not. Instead, I often found myself imagining his thoughts and feeling his emotions. It was as if an invisible rope linked us together.

Each night, when my thoughts became untethered from military discipline, I thought of Marco. My fingertips caressed the skin of my arms and belly as I remembered each moment he had touched me, on the shoulder, on the hand, on the back. At first I tried to banish such thoughts, but gradually I came to savor them. What harm was there in imagining something that could never happen? My nightly forbidden thoughts became ever more vivid.

21 Bamboo Fire

Each morning, I reminded myself how lucky I was to be a soldier on a mission, traveling ever farther from all that was familiar. Perhaps it was my Mongol heritage, but in the open air, I felt taller, stronger, wiser. In my memory, the Emperor's court became more closed-in and narrow. If only those people could get out and see how vast the sky was, and how the land stretched on and on. They would have a whole new sense of life.

Yet I also felt unsettled. I was a soldier at last, one of the few recruits chosen to go on this distant mission. I knew Abaji was watching me, to see how well I would withstand the rigors of travel and army life. This travel seemed easy. But I had doubts about my courage and preparedness. Was I tough enough for battle?

In North China under the Great Khan, the region known as Cathay, the Empire was at peace. The roads were wide, smooth, and well maintained, slightly raised and bordered by drainage ditches and trees. St.u.r.dy stone bridges crossed numerous streams and rivers. Excellent hostelries with clean rooms and pa.s.sable food were located a day's journey apart. The autumn weather was pleasantly cool, and the red leaves sparkled in the sunlight and sprinkled the hillsides with color. Traveling was much less taxing than daily military training. I could feel my muscles growing lazy. Once, I even envied the soldiers left behind in Khanbalik; they were improving their skills daily.

Every time our troops pa.s.sed a small town, vendors crowded around, eager to sell us whatever we might need. In these towns, I saw for the first time the merchant in Marco. He always sought out the town's marketplace. At dinner each night with Abaji, he would describe the unusual local products. He particularly praised the excellence of the silk cloth, gold thread, taffetas, and brocade. I had been raised to have disdain for merchants, who live off the labor of others. But gradually, I could see the appeal of his life.

After traveling through hilly country, we crossed a huge roaring river called the Caramoran, "Black River" in Mongolian. Chinese call it the Yellow River, because it carries silt from the yellowish soil of nearby hills. We loaded our horses and mules onto ferries, which took us across the wide river.

Eight days later, we arrived in Kenjanfu, the ancient capital of Cathay. Called by the Chinese the City of Eternal Peace, it had once been a great and fine capital, n.o.ble and rich, the most populous, cosmopolitan city in the world, home to powerful emperors for ten dynasties. A ma.s.sive gray wall surrounded it, with four huge gates pointing toward the four cardinal directions. I wondered if it had been difficult to conquer. Parts of the city wall were in disrepair, with bricks lying about. It had fallen three hundred years earlier.

It was common knowledge that the Cathayan empire had collapsed when its later emperors grew lazy, spending too much time with women. One famous Tang dynasty emperor had fallen in love with a great beauty, his concubine, and spent so much time dallying with her that he neglected his duties. His generals colluded to have the lady murdered so that the emperor could focus his attention on ruling. Not until after death could the two lovers reunite. It was one of Cathay's greatest love stories, and it ended in tragedy. I could not think of any love stories that ended happily.

Shortly after we left the city, heading south, we entered a rugged mountainous region. Our caravan followed rivers, but many times the hills were so steep that the road had been hewed into the sides of cliffs, held up by poles. Everyone had to walk, leading horses and mules along the narrow road. Every time I heard a loose rock slip into the canyon, I turned to make sure Baatar had not lost his footing. I tried not to look at the roaring river below. One day it rained, and a servant boy slipped off the path to his death. I had longed for danger, but not this sort.

We heard stories of lions, bears, and lynxes in the surrounding forests. The road became a crevice between walls of red sandstone several hundred feet high. I looked up to the ragged ridges that cut into the sky, where I caught sight of an eagle. As we climbed higher, the air grew colder, requiring everyone to bundle up in fur-lined coats. When it rained, my coat felt twice as heavy and I had to wear it wet the next morning.

Despite the wild environment, we pa.s.sed numerous towns and villages and even two cities where the valley widened into a small plain, in a land called Szechwan, or Four Rivers. The food was zesty, flavored heavily with hot peppers and garlic, which locals claimed would prevent illness. Between cities, we camped under the stars. While the scenery was stunning, the travel was wearisome; I was disheartened to hear it would take a month through such rugged terrain to reach the region of Carajan.

In Szechwan, we stocked up on all the food and provisions we would need. We were preparing for a journey through wild, uninhabited country and then through a mountainous region called Tibet, a friendly part of our Empire. Marco traded one of his silk carpets for salt, which Tibetans used as currency.

Before we reached Tibet, the land became even more rugged. This part of Szechwan, Abaji told us, had been sorely ravaged in the battles led by Khubilai Khan to control the area twenty years earlier. Abaji, who had served under Khubilai, told us many stories about the battles they had fought in this part of the empire.

One town, by a rushing river with mountains at its back, had been burned to the ground by Mongol troops. The crumbling bricks of the town's wall still stood, but the houses inside were charred remains. We stopped to water our horses, and Abaji told us how the town leaders had resisted, feigning surrender at first but then surprising the Mongolian hors.e.m.e.n by attacking with arrows from hideouts on cliffs and blocking the way with boulders. I looked up and shivered, imagining a torrent of arrows coming from those cliffs. It had taken three days for the Mongol troops to break through. When they did, they killed everyone in the town and burned it to the ground.

I noticed something half hidden behind a boulder and pointed to it. Abaji led the way, and several of us followed, including Marco. When we rounded the boulder, we saw that it was a stack of human bones and skulls, piled higher than the roof of a house. Most of them had been bleached in the sunlight and half rotted during the wet winters. Twenty years earlier, the stack must have been twice as high. Someone had placed all those bodies in one spot after the Mongol troops had left. Who? Wives or mothers?

The eyes in the skulls were empty holes, staring at us from the past, filling me with horror. I remembered that Marco had told me of seeing similar stacks of bleached bones many times during his journey from the West. But seeing them with my own eyes was far worse than hearing about them. Some were small, children's bones. It seemed impossible that brave Mongol soldiers would kill so many. That the great Khubilai Khan, with his good humor and intellectual interests, could have ordered it. That fat, good-natured Abaji himself had helped carry out such atrocities.

"They resisted," Abaji explained. "Now the land is at peace, and we can pa.s.s safely, without fear for our lives."

I tasted bile in my throat and looked away. Marco closed his eyes and turned, walking away without looking back. Yet without such killings, we Mongols could not have established wise rule and peace in these wild places.

I had often imagined fighting in a battle between two armies, and I had dreamed of killing armed enemy soldiers by the dozen. But a village of ordinary people, including women and children? In resisting the Mongols, they had merely been defending their homes. No wonder Marco wanted to prevent this from happening in Christendom.

That night, we camped under the open sky. Abaji picked an open area along a stream that flowed into the river, near the edge of a forest. "Few people remain in these parts," he told us. "The biggest danger is wild beasts. Lions and bears are hungry and often attack travelers. But I know an excellent way to keep them far away-a technique they use in this part of the Empire. Let me show you."

Abaji ordered several of the soldiers and servants to chop down tall trees called bamboo. The stems were hollow, divided into sections. The long, slender leaves, I learned, were the favorite food of the gentle white and black bear the Chinese called a bear-cat, or panda, with black patches around its eyes and small black ears. "No danger from them," explained Abaji. "Pandas are large but shy, and we're unlikely to see one."