Part 17 (1/2)

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 swordsmans.h.i.+p 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.