Daughter of Xanadu - Dori Jones Yang [33]
But I could not. I had to sit there and smile, pretending that I enjoyed the joke, that I agreed with their scornful laughter. Thanks to Marco’s choice of story, I had become part of the entertainment.
When the laughing died down, the Khan turned to his men. “The hour is late. This Latin storyteller, has he captivated you? Shall we ask him to return and tell another tale?”
Chimkin nodded. “Yes!” the men shouted.
Marco bowed in the Italian style, one hand before him and one behind. “I am honored,” he said, though no one could hear him amidst the noise.
“Next time, though,” said the Khan, his voice stern, “tell us a story from your homeland, not one about Mongols.”
Marco Polo had been invited back, to entertain the Khan again. Despite several missteps, the evening had been a great success—for him.
But for me, having expected to be a silent observer only, it had been a disaster. Ai-Jaruk had won the right to fight by defeating dozens of suitors in wrestling, with her big thick arms. What could I possibly do, with my strong but slender arms? If the Khan was going to make an exception and let a woman fight as a soldier, he would not do it for me simply because I had asked, or because I was his eldest granddaughter.
After the banquet ended, I rushed home and changed into an old, loose del. Then I ran and ran, through the Khan’s gardens, out the back gate, to the Khan’s hunting woods. My feet pounded my anger into the ground.
Finally, panting, I stopped at the side of a man-made lake. The water reflected the moon, round and white and full, shimmering and bright with cruel promise.
Bright Moon! I thought. Moon of Xanadu, Moon of the Desert West. Someday they will not laugh at me. Someday I will prove to them that in my own way, I can be as strong as Ai-Jaruk. Yes, even a legend.
If Marco Polo had aimed to please me, he had miscalculated. Instead, he had exposed me as a weak and foolish girl, a dreamer. How had I ever found him attractive?
The next day, I sent a servant to tell Marco Polo that I was not feeling well and would not meet him in the afternoon. Alone, Baatar and I rode into the hills as far as we could go. We galloped till Baatar frothed at the mouth.
The more his hooves pounded into the ground, the greater my anger grew. The Khan might as well have vowed, in front of his men, not to let me become a soldier. They had laughed at me. It had been Marco’s fault. By captivating me with that story of Ai-Jaruk, by playing into my pride and my desire to become a legend, Marco had exposed me. Maybe I was foolish to think I could ever become a legend. But what right had Marco Polo, a Latin merchant, to cast me in such a light? If the Khan closed off this possibility, I had no future. If Ai-Jaruk could go to war, why couldn’t I?
I needed to salvage my reputation, to make the Khan think highly of me again. There was only one way: to fulfill the Khan’s assignment. To find out something vital and valuable about Marco’s homeland, some weakness we could exploit. We would invade his precious Venezia. That would teach him.
So far, he had not said one thing that was useful for military strategy. I suspected he was hiding something. I could not imagine that he had come this far merely to trade. Surely his Pope would not have sent the Polos so far away without trusting them with valuable information. That was what my uncle had led me to believe.
To get him to talk, I needed to regain the upper hand, just like in wrestling. I needed to make it clear that he should not touch me again, on the shoulder or hand or anywhere else. It was not proper. He needed to learn respect, the Mongol way.
The following afternoon, I could no longer delay. It was time to see Marco.
Wearing the plainest del I owned, I chose a much different place to walk. Just outside the eastern gate of Xanadu stretches a large patch of grassland, wide and open to the sky. The land had originally been forested.