Daughter of Xanadu - Dori Jones Yang [17]
“Your Majesty is too kind. Your ladies are, ah, beautiful.”
I looked at him with fascinated curiosity, as one would a monkey on a rope. Normally, no one would mention the presence of women when in the company of the Great Khan. We were supposed to be invisible and silent, mere decorations.
“My chief wife, Chabi Khatun. And this is my granddaughter, Emmajin Beki.” Beki was my title, meaning “princess.”
The Latin did something beyond comprehension. He took off his hat and kneeled before my grandmother and me. “Chabi Khatun. Emmajin Beki. At your service.”
Not only did he bow on his knees, but he used the honorific form of “you”—not normally used for women and children. No one had ever referred to me that way. I looked at my grandfather with apprehension. He smiled and shook his head at the foreign manners.
At that moment, we heard a shout, and the elephants began moving with a jerk. The foreign man fell over sideways and grabbed the nearest thing, which happened to be my ankle. Sparks of alarm shot up my leg, and I clutched the arm of my seat.
The Khan reached down to the Latin and helped him up to his seat, laughing.
The foreigner’s face turned red, and he spewed apologies. I pulled my feet back under me, but I couldn’t help smiling. He looked ridiculous, this man with the strange name of Marco Polo. How could I have feared him? And yet I felt off balance.
“You shall enjoy the view better from your seat,” the Khan said to him.
As we rode out of the palace, a servant poured us each a goblet of fresh airag. It was frothy and milky, with a satisfying sour bite. But the jostling of the pavilion on elephant back made my headache worse. I was glad to remain silent.
Using half-Mongolian, half-Turkic words, Marco Polo stammered out answers to the Khan’s questions. Although respectful, he had a lighthearted manner that surprised me. He spoke about his father, Niccolo, and his uncle, Maffeo, who had visited the court of Khubilai Khan ten years earlier. Apparently, the Khan had treated them well. They had promised to return with one hundred scholars, to explain their religion to the Great Khan.
Marco Polo, along with his father and his uncle, first visited their Holy Land and brought with them some sacred oil. But they failed to bring the hundred scholars. They had found only three scholars willing to travel to the East with them, and all three had run home when they had encountered war. My grandfather, who loved listening to wise men debate about religion, frowned with disappointment as he queried this young man about the details. Marco seemed flustered, trying to explain this major failure of his father and uncle. I guessed he was not used to speaking for them.
Still, the Great Khan showed more consideration for this man than I had expected. “You speak well, young man. If you live to manhood, you will not fail to prove yourself of sound judgment and true worth. How many summers have you seen?”
“This begins my twenty-first summer.”
I was surprised. He looked older, though his cheerfulness made him seem young.
“Have you trained as a warrior? Fought any battles?”
“No, Your Majesty. Ours is a noble family in Venezia, but I am a merchant’s son.” Though not tall, he seemed well built and strong. What a pity he had no training.
“So you came this great distance, yet you have no services to offer me?”
I had thought of this man as a potential enemy, but the Great Khan assumed he came as a faithful vassal. I realized how little I knew about foreigners.
The Latin seemed startled by the question. “I have traveled across many lands, O Kaan of all Kaans.” That k sound scraped against my ears. Still, the airag was causing a light buzz to replace the pounding inside my head, and it helped me to relax.
“Your father spoke only a little of this journey the other day. How long did it take you to get here from your homeland?”
“Three and a half years.”
“So long? Yet you carried the golden tablets of safe passage.” These tablets, I knew, were issued by the Khan to guarantee safe travel within the