Daughter of Xanadu - Dori Jones Yang [27]
Our sparring match was not going well. Marco seemed to think we were becoming friends. Why did I keep forgetting that he was an alien, not to be trusted?
Even inside the pavilion, the heat was oppressive. Xanadu summers were usually not so hot. I wiped a bead of sweat from my face. “It’s terrible, this heat,” I said.
He smiled. “I come from a hot climate, so I like warm weather.”
The air between us shimmered in the heat. His manner, relaxed and candid, had a way of breaking down that protective barrier around my mind. I felt disarmed.
A murmur of thunder grumbled in the distance. Startled, I jumped up. I hated thunderstorms. I felt an urge to get out of Marco’s presence, lest I do or say something wrong.
“We need to go back before it rains,” I said. I strode off down a path along a winding wall. Marco looked surprised but followed.
As we were walking, I remembered my uncle’s order to learn some Latin words.
I stopped so abruptly that Marco nearly bumped into me. He pulled back, clearly aware of the need to keep his distance from the Khan’s granddaughter, and apologized profusely. He was so close I could feel his breath. I pulled back, too, embarrassed.
We were standing next to a pond covered with brilliant green lotus leaves. Several flat-topped stones had been strategically placed so it was possible to cross the pond. Normally a popular spot, the banks of the pond were deserted now.
“Teach me some words of Latin,” I commanded.
Marco’s head tilted. “With pleasure,” he said. “What would you like to learn?”
I was tongue-tied. If I learned the Latin words for warfare, Khan, and weaponry, that would suffice for one day. What was it about that smile of his that flustered me?
“Our word for Tengri is ‘Deus,’ ” Marco began.
“Day-oos,” I repeated. “But your Deus is different from our Tengri?” Marco worshiped a different god, and I didn’t know what that meant about him.
“Some Christians would say so. But I believe there is only one God. People in each country and of each religion use different words for the same God.”
I nodded, trying to understand. It did not seem possible that Marco’s Deus commanded Chinggis Khan to conquer the world, but perhaps it was true. “A-a-and Great Khan?” I stammered. “How do you say that?”
“Hmm. We don’t have a Great Khan. But in the old days, the Romans used the word imperator.” His lips were wet, moving inside his beard.
My lips and tongue could barely get around this word, imperator. I was sure I would not remember it. The Mongolian word, khagan, was much easier to say.
Marco smiled wryly at my pronunciation. “Let’s start with something easier. Try this word: amo.”
“Amo.” This word was much easier.
Marco nodded. Then he did something that surprised me. He stepped onto a wide, flat stone in the lotus pond. The water reflected the thickening gray clouds.
He gestured to me. “Follow me. Repeat after me. Amo.”
I frowned. I hated water. With our roots in the grasslands, we Mongols are people of the earth, not the water. Yet this pond lay still and shallow, calmer than an old mare. And who was he to give me an order? Yet it sounded more like an invitation.
“I will explain. Amo.” He smiled, as if walking across water were as natural as riding a horse.
He offered his hand. I looked around, to make sure no one was watching. Such playfulness was improper, a waste of time—and incompatible with my serious mission.
It felt like a dare.
“Amo.” Tense and uncertain, I followed him to the stepping stone, trying hard not to take his hand or brush against him. “But I don’t …”
“Amas.” Quickly, he stepped to the next stone. He seemed so enviably free, so naturally open, so unrestrained by rigid rules. Far from intimidating or dangerous.
“Amas.” I followed him. Suren and I had played like this, years ago.
“Amat.” Marco leaped to the next flat stone, almost losing his balance.
“Amat.” My heart lightened. These words sounded ridiculous, almost the same.
Amamus, amatis, amant. By the sixth step, we were safe on the other side of the pond, on firm ground.