Daughter of Xanadu Part 17

Abaji and Nesruddin rushed toward us. They appeared ruddy and uninjured, but both looked stricken when they realized that Suren was dead. They lay his body flat on the ground so that it would not stiffen in an awkward position. Abaji closed Suren's eyes. "Thank Heaven you are not injured," Abaji said to me.

I stared at Suren's body, then sank to my knees next to him. His hand was cold. His death was my fault. If I had left with him, as he had insisted, he would still be alive. Driven by dreams of glory, I had not thought my decision could endanger him.

Someone brought a sleeping fur and lifted Suren's body onto it. I reached into my clothing and pulled out the blue scarf Marco had given me. It had kept me safe. Now Suren needed it, for his journey to the spirit world. Somewhere, unseen to me, he was being welcomed by the Great Ancestor himself.

I started to cover his neck wound with it and discovered the dragon's tooth, hanging on a thong around his neck. So much for that good luck charm. I cut the thong and replaced it with the blue scarf, covering his neck. I wanted to toss the dragon's tooth away, but instead, I tucked it into my waistband. It had been precious to Suren, the symbol of an adventure he had loved.

"Keep his arm flat at his side," someone said. "You don't want it to stiffen at that angle." I lay his arm flat but wrapped my fingers around his hand.

Suren had saved my life, but I had failed him.

"I saw her. She fought valiantly," I heard someone say.

"Of course," said Abaji. "She has the Great Ancestor's blood in her veins."

"She killed over a hundred soldiers, wielding her mace with fury and chopping off heads," someone else said. I could hear the admiration in his voice.

"She brought us good luck," said another.

It was the praise I had longed to hear. But I was not in the mood to be celebrated as a hero. What was valor compared to the loss of life? Suren and I would not return together to Khanbalik and boast of our exploits on the battlefield. Hundreds of other Mongol soldiers still lay out in the field, dead or dying in agony, never to return home.

Again, bile rose in my throat, but I choked it down. I was beyond tears.

Suren had been part of my life since my earliest memories, always there, ever eager to learn with me, to compete with me, ever good-tempered, ever smiling. I had shared countless meals with him. I had learned swordsmanship with him. We had been comrades-in-arms, sharing a dream. Now his dreaming was over.

But what of me? I had tasted battlefield victory. And it was bitter.

30 After the Battle

For a long time, I knelt at Suren's side. Behind me, men crowed of their battlefield prowess. With ardor, they recounted heads they had severed, arrows that had pierced an eye or a nose, elephants and horses they had slain. Their mirth rose and overlapped like flames of a newly stoked fire.

They cheered the joy of victory, a thrill I had always longed to feel. But I felt empty. Inside me was a huge hole, dark and deep.

"... the foreign merchant," I overheard someone say.

My head bobbed up and I listened through my black fog.

"Yes, killed. He didn't even fight."

The news. .h.i.t me like a bolt of lightning. Marco was killed, too? I turned quickly to the men behind me. "How?"

The soldier laughed. "The fool. When the battle was nearly over, he went to the woods to see the elephants and was trampled."

I could barely sputter out the words. "Marco Polo? The Latin?"

"Beard like fire. Strange eyes. They say he was a storyteller."

I couldn't breathe. A lifetime of unrealized possibilities flashed before my eyes and faded.

Marco. I remembered how intensely he had held me by the stream near the Tibetan village. How he had wrapped the rope around the snout of the dragon. I thought of our walks in the Khan's garden in the heat of summer. I recalled standing next to him, teaching him Mongolian archery skills. I remembered how he had listened to Abaji's stories of Mongol glory. He could not be dead.

I squeezed Suren's hand and stood up, my knees stiff from kneeling. I shook off a moment of dizziness. If Marco's body was out there, I had to find it. Already some soldiers were stacking up corpses, which would be burned. If I did not move quickly, I might never see his body.

Baatar picked that moment to find me in the chaos. How, I would never know. I hugged his neck and buried my face in his mane, coated stiff with sweat and blood. He whinnied, and I felt sure I saw relief in his eyes. I had no time even to find water for him. I mounted him and rode across the battlefield. Soldiers were busy dragging the dead to the side and carrying the wounded to camp.

I headed for the edge of the woods, where most of the elephants had entered. A few elephants were being led out by our Mongol soldiers. Moving slowly and silently, the beasts no longer seemed threatening.

Human bodies were strewn about, both in black and in red. I held my hand over my nose and searched. Once, I thought I saw Marco's body, underneath that of a Burmese soldier, but when I pulled the enemy's body off, I saw that it was a Mongol soldier I had met on the road. The Burmese soldier on top of him still had his fingers wrapped around his sword, covered with precious Mongol blood. I kicked him.

Nearby, a badly wounded Burmese soldier was moaning. I stabbed his throat. Now I understood why the Mongols refused to take prisoners or treat injured enemies.

The winter sun dipped below the tops of the hills, and the light began to fade. I kept searching, feeling increasingly frantic. Suren was dead, and Marco was, too. No one else meant as much to me. I had no reason to hope that Marco was still alive in these woods. But if he lived, I would find him and make sure he was treated.

Marco Polo. I knew, now and too late, that I loved him. If he was alive, I wanted him close to me, always. If he was dead, I could not go on.

I was not able to find Marco's body anywhere. Fires had been lit. I could smell roasting mutton. My stomach grumbled, but how could I eat? How could the sun set?

I searched for Abaji. He would know if Marco had died. I found Abaji sitting by a fire, a mutton rib in his hand, listening to Nesruddin talk about the battle.

"There you are!" Abaji said. "I sent a man to search for you."

My throat constricted but I forced it open to speak. "Marco?" I asked.

Abaji gestured to his left with the rib. There, sitting by the side of a tent, writing furiously on parchment, was Marco Polo.

The tightness inside me burst. He was alive!

I stood before him, soaking up the details: his reddish curls, matted with sweat and glowing in the firelight; his bushy beard; his high nose; his thick eyebrows, drawn together in concentration. His moving hand, his breathing body.

He stopped writing and looked up. A smile of relief lit up his face. "Emmajin!" He dropped his ink brush and paper, stood up, and embraced me in a way no Mongol man ever embraces a woman in public. I was so relieved I didn't care. He spoke into my hair. "I was so afraid for you, during the battle. I searched and searched but could not find you."

I buried my head in his chest. "They told me you were dead."

He laughed. "Oh, no. I'm alive. And you are, too. Thanks be to Deus." He squeezed me more tightly against him. I was too choked up to speak.

Finally, he pulled back and looked into my eyes. "Abaji has been telling everyone about how valiantly you fought. Everyone praises you. Sit here, and tell me your tale."

I stared hard at him. "Suren is dead."

His face darkened. "Yes, I know. He died a hero's death."

I nearly gagged. To Marco, the battle was nothing more than a story. He would gather the facts and prepare a good tale for the entertainment of the Great Khan. The battle of Vochan would go down in history, and his would be the official version.

A surge of anger flared through me. Marco had not fought. He had stood to the side and observed. He had done nothing to ensure the victory, yet the Khan and his men would shout, "Good! Good!" as if he himself had laid his life on the line. Suren was dead, and Marco wanted details, like a vulture picking at carrion.

"Emmajin Beki?" He could see the shadow covering my face. I pulled away from his touch. "I loved him, too, you know," he said.

I looked away, remembering how Marco and Suren had seemed like brothers just a few days earlier, sharing the excitement of dragon hunting. I had never seen Suren so happy.

"You fought well," Marco said, as if to soothe me. "There is much to celebrate."

I whipped around and stared into those green eyes, which seemed empty again. "No. Suren lies dead. And you did nothing." Suddenly, this man, dear to me a moment before, seemed like a court fool.

He dropped his arms to his sides, looking at me sadly.

"You just watched from a hillside as we fought." I spoke with venom in my voice. "Or were you in your tent, writing?"

Marco looked stricken.

Abaji lumbered over to us. "Emmajin." He, too, tried to touch me but I pulled away. "Emmajin. You have not heard."

"What!" My voice cut like a saber across a man's throat.

"It was Marco's idea. He has no military training, but his idea helped us win."

"What idea?" Whatever it was, I cared not.

"He brought the fire medicine to use against the elephants. Those explosions."

I looked hard at Abaji and then at Marco.

"We owe him thanks. We could not have won otherwise."

The explosions that had frightened the elephants. The fire rats and the powder Marco had collected in the dragon village. Yet I could not believe that Abaji was giving credit to Marco for our victory. We did the fighting and killing.

Seeing my anger, grief, and disbelief, Marco looked at his hands.

"But you, Emmajin Beki!" Abaji continued. "I hear you killed one hundred enemy soldiers." One hundred. I had never said that number. Later stories expanded it to one thousand. But it was not valor or glory that had driven me. It was anger and retribution. Ugly actions driven by ugly motives.

"You must be hungry." Abaji seemed eager to soothe me. "Have some meat."

I could not eat. Blood and mud caked on my hands. I went to the stream and washed. My hands came clean, but the stains of battle were embedded in my clothing and my heart. I went to my ger ger and sat a long time. Suren was dead. Marco and I were alive. I had proved I could fight like a man. But there was no thrill in it. and sat a long time. Suren was dead. Marco and I were alive. I had proved I could fight like a man. But there was no thrill in it.

Part III - Return to Khanbalik

31 New Possibilities

I did not dream of the horrors of battle that night, although I have many times since. But halfway through the night, I heard Suren calling my name. I woke up saying, "Yes? What is it?" thinking he was sleeping next to me, as he had during our latest journey. Even in the darkness, though, I could sense that he wasn't there. did not dream of the horrors of battle that night, although I have many times since. But halfway through the night, I heard Suren calling my name. I woke up saying, "Yes? What is it?" thinking he was sleeping next to me, as he had during our latest journey. Even in the darkness, though, I could sense that he wasn't there.

Images from the battle flashed through my mind. I tried to shut them out and remember Suren's face at peace. "What shall I tell your father and the Khan?" I pleaded, ever more desperate to hear him answer. "Suren!" I nearly shouted. My heart was barren and my eyes were dry. I could feel his spirit there with me. I knew well that angry ghosts often haunted those they had quarreled with, but I had never quarreled with Suren. I wanted to tell his unsettled spirit to leave and find peace, but I didn't have the heart to.

The next morning, at first light, we buried Suren's body. This far from home, we could not wait for the lamas to declare an auspicious day. As a prince of the Golden Family, he was placed in a coffin, with his sword by his side, a rock under his head, and Marco's blue scarf around his neck. His grave was unmarked, but I tried to remember the spot-the slope of the hill and a large rock nearby. Abaji stood by my side, out of respect.

It was raining, and I could not help thinking about that wooden coffin rotting in the wet soil, far from home. It seemed wrong to leave his body there. I wore the dragon's tooth on its thong under my del del, next to my heart. It felt heavy and burned my skin.

When we returned to camp, we had to walk between two fires, to drive evil spirits away and prevent further misfortunes. The fires sizzled in the rain, and men worked hard to keep them going.

The other dead soldiers were too numerous to be buried. And we could not follow our nomadic Mongol custom of "casting out" the bodies in remote, dry areas for the wild dogs and vultures. Their bodies had to be burned, to allow their spirits to rise directly to Heaven. A group of men took pains to lay out the bodies of the Khan's soldiers in close, neat rows, heads pointing north, in preparation for cremation when the rain stopped. It was much quicker to kill hundreds of men than to care for their corpses.

I was glad not to be a.s.signed the hideous task of collecting and burning the bodies. Instead, I was directed to help care for the wounded. I knew nothing of such work, but others had been doing it throughout the night and taught me how. I dipped cloths in water and cleaned superficial wounds. I wiped cool cloths over the faces of the feverish. I tightened tourniquets around arms and legs to minimize blood loss. Some of the soldiers had burns or limbs missing from the explosions of the fire medicine. Overnight, half the wounded had died, and more died during the day. We could do little to save them. Their moans and screams lacerated my heart.

During the day, I saw Marco several times, in the tents of the wounded. He brought out the precious medicines he had bought in the market of Carajan and explained how to use them. He had traded almost all the goods his father had retained for those medicines, and now he was offering them to help save our soldiers.

Seeing Marco doing such important work calmed me. But there was no opportunity for us to be alone. Part of me was glad of that, because I did not trust myself.

My feelings had shifted. Losing Suren and nearly losing Marco had made me rethink what was important to me. Before I had met Marco, all that had mattered was my ambition to join the Khan's army and to achieve glory in battle. Now I had achieved those goals, but they were empty vessels. Glory on the battlefield had come with a price too high to bear. Without Suren at my side, even the grandest of victory parades would mean nothing.

"Water!" A Mongol soldier waved his bandaged stump to get my attention. I dipped a bowl into a bucket of water and brought it to him.

With the clarity of a lightning strike, I realized that I could never fight in a battle again. After all my bravado in front of the Great Khan, I would have to go back before him and ask to be released from the army. The thought made me shiver.

If I did not continue as a soldier, what would I do? Who would I be?

My heart in turmoil and confusion, I sank into despair.

A few days later, we left Vochan and began the five-day ride through the mountains back to Nesruddin's palace in Da-li. Of the twelve thousand Mongol army soldiers who had set out, eight thousand had survived. Of the thirty young recruits who had left Khanbalik in Tenth Moon with Abaji, just sixteen remained. Todogen was dead, and only one of the three sergeants was left. The empty s.p.a.ces between us hung heavily.

During the journey to Da-li, the soldiers kept talking of the battle, each telling what he had seen. They mourned lost friends but were jubilant about the victory. The farther we traveled from Vochan, the more epic the proportions the tale took on. The number of enemies killed increased daily, but the horror and bloodshed disappeared behind such words as "the battle raged furiously with sword and mace" and "right fiercely did the two hosts rush together, and deadly were the blows exchanged."

The tales began to sound more like the familiar words of Old Master and less like the battle I had witnessed and fought. I realized that tales, even true ones, do not reflect truth in its fullness. In fact, all of the storytellers' tales of battles were trickery. They pumped up men's spirits so they would go eagerly into battle, when the reality of battle was unbearable. Soldiers who had killed men could live with themselves only if they believed the storytellers' versions of battlefield glory.

As I rode each day under the winter gray of the mountain skies, I thought about the future. Marco and I had never spoken words of love to each other. And certainly we had never discussed the possibility of a life together. But despite my anger at Marco, I realized that he was precious to me now. Suren's death had taught me how vain it was to put my desire for glory above my love for others.

I looked forward to arriving at Nesruddin's palace, hoping I would find time there to relax with Marco. Now that my feelings toward him had changed, I needed to think about what my choices might be. I wished I could come up with some way to keep Marco with me. It was tempting to imagine running off with him. But where would we go? To Venezia? His father and uncle had remained in Khanbalik, and they would be punished, possibly executed, if Marco ran off with a princess from the imperial court. The Khan's power extended throughout his Empire. We were near the border and could slip outside the empire quickly, but across the border was Burma, territory of the enemy.

Could Marco and I get married somehow? I laughed silently at the image of my father, Prince Dorji, and Marco's father, Niccolo Polo, toasting each other at a wedding banquet. It was impossible. Granddaughters of the Khan were valuable property, to be offered in marriage only to men of allied clans as a reward for loyalty and service. Marrying me to a Latin merchant and storyteller would be like throwing a diamond into a dung pile. I hoped that battlefield glory would give me the right to refuse any more marriage offers. But no one in the royal family would accept Marco as a suitable mate.

Besides, as much as he meant to me, I cringed at the idea of becoming Marco's wife. That would mean moving out of the Khan's court and into the cramped rooms Marco shared with his father and uncle. I would no longer be the Great Khan's granddaughter but the wife of a merchant. Marco would not stay in China forever. I would have to go to Venezia when he was ready. As attractive as Venezia sounded, I had no desire to leave the center of the world and go live in a waterlogged city so far outside the realm of the known that it took more than three years to get there. I would be as foreign there as Marco was here.

Traveling with Marco would allow me to see the world. But it would mean leaving my homeland forever. I imagined the life of a traveling merchant: stirring pots over campfires, plodding along on camelback for days on end, living among uncivilized barbarians who could not speak my language.

A merchant's wife-it reminded me of the famous Tang poem "The Lute Girl." In it, a woman sadly plucked her lute, remembering the days of her youth, when all admired her musical skills. When she grew older, she was forced to become "a trader's wife, the chattel of a slave, whose lord was gold."

No, marrying Marco was out of the question. But what could I do, an unmarried princess, granddaughter of the Khan, veteran of the battle of Vochan? My brain hurt as I pushed it for answers.