Part 4 (1/2)
I took a deep breath. ”The Khan has asked me to host you here in Xanadu, to show you the grounds.”
He grinned too broadly at this news.
I set my mouth in a firm line, and his smile faded.
”You would prefer not to?”
”I do as the Great Khan asks.”
He seemed ill at ease, as if disappointed and uncertain what to do or say.
Not only was this the first time I had had a direct conversation with a foreigner, but it was also the first time I had spoken to a man not related to me without my family present. I didn't even know what to call him. Almost every man I knew was a relative, called uncle or brother. I needed to show him I was in command. ”Today, we will ride in the hills.”
He bowed his head, appropriately humble. ”As you wish.”
”Leave your dagger here,” I said. He dropped his weapon just inside his tent.
Relieved to be moving, I turned and strode toward the horse pasture. The foreigner hastened to catch up to me, but I stayed one pace ahead. I had decided to take him riding, because it would be easier to keep my distance from him on horseback.
We reached a spot where several horses were tethered to a rope stretched high between two poles. I told the horse boy to saddle up my palomino stallion as well as a tawny mare for the visitor.
The Latin man stood awkwardly by my side, his breath at the level of my ears. I could smell a strange perfume of pungent cloves on his curls. It felt wrong to stand so close to a foreign man. Once I had mounted Baatar, I felt much more comfortable.
But Marco hesitated. ”I've never ridden on a Mongolian saddle,” he said. How strange. I looked at the wooden saddle, its familiar curved shape high in the front and back, painted red with silver medallions. What kind of primitive saddle did this man use?
He fumbled, trying to mount. I could not fathom how this man had traveled for three years from the end of the world and never learned how to ride on a proper Mongolian saddle. I had learned to ride before I could walk.
Once on the horse, he kicked her in the sides! The mare flinched. Didn't he know it was wrong to kick a horse? I reached over to his steed and steadied her with a hand on her neck. ”What are you doing?” I asked.
His weird eyes registered uncertainty.
With the familiar cry of ”Tchoo! Tchoo!” I urged Baatar forward across the gra.s.ses, and the tawny mare followed. Baatar and I moved fluidly together, as if he could read my thoughts. I quickly broke into a trot, then a lope, checking to see if the Latin was following. He was hanging on to the wooden saddle and smiling gamely at me. I headed for the foothills and slowed as we started up a well-known trail.
The morning's rain had left diamonds in the gra.s.s, and I brushed against wet branches that sprayed me with sparkling drops. I luxuriated in the first warm rays of sunlight on my hands and face.
As we rode, single file, mostly uphill, I silently rehea.r.s.ed the questions I would ask of this man. If I could get all the needed answers quickly, perhaps the Khan would let me return to my usual life, with hours to spend on archery and horseback. I had hoped Suren and I could begin preparing for military training that summer.
Soon we approached a clearing overlooking Xanadu from the hills just north of the walled city. I jumped off my horse and tied him to a nearby tree. Marco Polo did the same. Then I led him to the edge of the clearing for the best view.
From this vantage point, we could see the whole of Xanadu. The palace sat on a wide plain surrounded by high hills visible along the horizon. Much of the plain was forested, a semi-wild park of trees and gra.s.slands and natural streams. These woods, a hunting preserve for the Khan, contained many deer and foxes. From above, we could see how the thick outer walls of Xanadu formed a huge square. Inside was a small town for servants and guests, as well as the Khan's famous fabulous gardens. Brooks, hillocks, bridges, pavilions, twisting pathways, and artificial lakes all glistened in the intense sunlight.
I sighed. It was like a fantasyland, a place I had longed for during the cold winter.
At the heart of this square was a smaller square, formed by high stone walls topped by turrets. Inside this inner, ”forbidden” city were the golden roofs of the palace, a smaller and leafier version of the ma.s.sive imperial palace in Khanbalik. The main hall, raised on an artificial hill, was pure white marble, s.h.i.+mmering and smooth. It faced due south, as all major doors do, toward the sun, away from us.
Other buildings inside the inner walls were pavilions of painted wood with golden roofs, set amidst tree-shaded courtyards. Each building was positioned carefully on a straight north-south, east-west axis, in the Chinese imperial style. But one large courtyard was dotted with round white tents, our distinctive Mongolian ger gers. They reminded everyone of the old days, when our ancestors were nomadic herders and warriors, traveling freely. The Khan had insisted that the floors of the palace at Xanadu be made of packed dirt, to keep him connected to the earth.
Overhead, an eagle soared. An exhilarating breeze blew my hair about my face. I hoped the magic of Xanadu would make this day go well.
The foreigner gazed at the panorama below, as if drinking in every detail. ”My father told me of this place, but I could not imagine it. I thought the Mongols lived on horseback, moving their tents from place to place.”
”That's true.” I pushed myself to speak. ”We Mongols are hunters and herdsmen, with no tradition of fixed palaces. We do not eat plants or dig in the dirt.”
He turned back to me, his face radiant with joy. Those eyes looked clear and empty. I wondered if they could see more than dark eyes saw. He looked innocent, but my grandmother had hinted that he was not safe. The time had come to begin my mission.
I led him to a gra.s.sy spot and spread a goatskin on the ground. I put my bow in the middle, a clear boundary between me and the foreigner. I sat on one side, and he sat on the other. I kept the sharp-tipped arrows behind me, so he could not reach them.
I got out a leather pouch with dried milk curds in it and offered him some to eat. He tossed a milk-curd cube into the hole in his beard where his mouth was. A frown creased his forehead and he chewed as if trying to make up his mind about it.
”Very good,” he said, smiling as if eager to please. He was not good at lying.
Such curds were meant to provide energy on a journey and were not particularly tasty. I ate in silence, rehearsing my first question.
”What do you hope to get from the Khan? What are your intentions?” As soon as I spoke, I knew I had been too blunt.
Marco examined my face before responding soberly. ”I will be frank with you, Princess. My father and uncle handed all our precious trading commodities over to the Khan, as is required. If I can gain his favor, perhaps he will give us, in return, goods of great value to take back to our homeland.” So this was the way merchants worked. Not buying and selling with coins, but taking their chances with the Khan's goodwill.
”How will you gain his favor?”
”By serving him, entertaining him in the most appealing possible way. Perhaps you can let me know if you hear any reaction to my storytelling?” It occurred to me that Marco Polo was also using me. His success depended in part on his connection with me.
His odd eyes seemed bluish green in this setting. I suspected that they could see inside my mind. It made me uncomfortable. I needed to press on.
”Tell me again,” I said ”What is the name of your homeland?”
”Venezia,” he said.
”Way-nay-sha,” I said, trying to p.r.o.nounce it. I could barely get my tongue around the strange sounds. How could I remember it? ”How big and powerful is it?”
Marco laughed. ”It is just a city, but with its own army.”
”It belongs to a larger country?”
”Well, it is part of Christendom,” he said, using a Mongolian word meaning ”Land of the Religion of Light.” ”But Christendom has many countries and city-states.”
He picked up a stick and began to draw a map in the dirt.
”This is Italia.” The shape he drew looked like a boot with a strange heel. ”Here is Venezia.” He made a circle near the top of the boot. ”Here is Genova, our rival city. They, too, have many s.h.i.+ps and merchants, and we compete with them for the best markets.”
I noticed that his fingers were long and thin, soft and clean. ”They fight?” I asked.
”More like competing in a contest. This, you see”-he scratched the area on three sides of the boot-”is the Middle-of-the-Earth Sea. Up here is France, where the Franks live, and above that is England. Over here, Aragon.” He continued drawing and poking in the dirt, naming a confusing array of countries, each with its own king.
I frowned. There were too many foreign names to remember. It was like trying to stuff a month's worth of dried meat into a leather pouch meant for overnight.
I stopped him. ”Who is the ruler of these lands?”
He thought for a minute. ”We don't have one ruler, like your Great Khan. Some of these lands belong to the Holy Roman Empire. But many do not. They are not united.”
I shook my head.