Daughter of Xanadu - Dori Jones Yang [18]
“Yes, thanks to Your Majesty. The tablets saved our lives many times. But we also had to pass through freezing mountains, torrents of rain, dangerous deserts.”
The Great Khan’s eyes grew serious. “And during that time, what was the most challenging obstacle you faced?”
Marco paused. His forehead had an amiable way of smoothing out when he thought. One word escaped his lips. “Bandits.” His green eyes sparkled.
I leaned forward to hear better.
“Ah, bandits!” The Khan’s face lit up in anticipation. “I would like to hear this story. I command you to tell it to me.” A servant refilled his golden goblet, then ours, and the Khan settled back in his fur-covered seat to listen.
Marco began, tentatively at first. “It was a band of … Caraonas.”
I had heard of these fearful men, Caraonas, bandits born of Mongol fathers and Persian mothers, not accepted in any society. Outlaws.
“We were traveling in a caravan of fifty men, on camels. We came to a vast plain, in Persia, on our way to the … to the … big water.” He squinted at the Khan as if hoping the Khan would provide the word he was looking for. But the Khan just listened.
Marco swallowed hard and continued. “Most towns there have high walls, built to defend against the Caraonas, who have … who have hurt people there for many years.”
As he spoke, Marco’s manner changed. His posture straightened as his uncertainty dropped away, and confidence took over his voice.
“These Caraonas have a certain magic,” Marco continued. “They can bring darkness over the face of day, so that you can scarcely see your comrade riding beside you. They ride abreast, as many as ten thousand of them, spread across the whole plain. Like hunters, they catch every living thing they find. They butcher old men. They capture young men and women and sell them as slaves. Thus the whole land is ruined, a desert.”
As he spoke, I thought, Can I handle this assignment, gathering intelligence from this foreigner? Like it or not, I had to do what the Khan had commanded me.
Marco seemed to get lost in his story. “One day, as we were crossing the plain, night fell at midday. We could hear the pounding of horses’ hooves. The Caraonas galloped at us a thousand strong, in the darkness. Everyone panicked. My uncle, my father, and I were near the back of our caravan. We turned and headed to a nearby village. Our camels, struck with fear, ran fast as horses.”
Listening to the foreigner’s deep voice, I forgot his odd appearance and imagined myself riding on a camel, beset by sudden darkness, fleeing from murderous bandits.
“The village had locked its gates,” Marco continued, “but we pounded, and they let us in. Only when I was inside did I know that my father and uncle had made it, too. Those who came later were not allowed in. They screamed as the bandits butchered them. Of the fifty men in our caravan, only seven of us escaped. We knelt down and thanked God for sparing our lives.” He used the Mongolian word for God: Tengri.
Marco finished speaking. I had almost stopped breathing during the story. It was a shock to come back to the present. For an unending moment of silence, I wondered if this foreign man had spoken too much. Most people say little in the Great Khan’s presence until they are certain where they stand.
The Khan stared at Marco with narrow, piercing eyes. The Empress, who had been listening with interest, looked at the Khan as if curious to see his reaction. Then the Khan beamed. “Well done! You were so quiet at our official meeting yesterday, I had no idea that you have talent as a storyteller.”
Marco bowed his head. “I speak your language poorly.”
The Khan laughed. “You speak better than many at court. In a few days, I will dine with several of my men. You will entertain us with a story.”
The young foreigner seemed flustered but honored. “At your service.”
The man’s storytelling amazed me. All my life I had looked up to military men. This Latin had no ability in the manly arts. Yet he was an