Daughter of Xanadu - Dori Jones Yang [39]
“Yes. The Great Khan has invited him back to his banquet hall to tell another tale.” I remembered that the success of their trading mission depended on the Khan’s goodwill. I suspected that Niccolo Polo thought of little else.
With a pang, I realized that it would no longer be possible for me to see Marco alone. No more talk of courtly love. That should have pleased me. I would have safety in numbers. But part of me, a part I was trying to suppress, felt disappointed.
That first day, I took them into a pavilion in the garden. Marco asked me to repeat to them many of the things I had told him about myself and about Xanadu. In their presence, Marco was more subdued.
“Your son has told me about your homeland, Venezia,” I said to his father. “I hope to visit it someday.”
His father’s eyebrows shot up. But his uncle smiled. “We would welcome visitors from the Khan’s court. But is a long journey for a lady.”
I smiled at him, practicing hiding my thoughts. “Of course. I have never traveled. But I enjoy hearing about distant lands. Marco tells me you have visited many lands.”
After that day, every five days, I walked in the gardens or the grasslands or rode in the hills with Marco, his father, and his uncle. On other days, I was free to spend time as I wished, racing and competing against Suren and the other cousins. Each time I met with the Latins, I looked for the chink in their armor, half hoping I would not find it.
Marco’s father was cautious around me, erecting walls of defense, and did not divulge any information about his homeland. His uncle Maffeo, though, seemed more relaxed and told many stories, often humorous. His health gradually improved.
As for Marco and me, our friendship resumed the formal distance it should always have had. Marco, ever talkative, continued to tell me stories of his homeland and of their journey. I asked about the various kings and emperors, trying to remember which had the strongest armies. His uncle patiently taught me many words of Latin until I could stammer out a few sentences, including my favorite, “Deus amat Mongoliam.” That means “God loves Mongolia.” I also asked many questions about the Religion of Light but found the answers confusing.
Marco never again brought up the subject of how fearful the Mongol army looked to his countrymen. Nor did he touch me. But he had already said enough, and I could see admiration and longing in his eyes.
After each talk, I reported to my uncle. One of his men listened to my report and wrote down some of the things I said. No matter how many names of places and kings I memorized, nothing seemed to light up Chimkin’s eyes. Even Suren could find out nothing further about how likely it might be that I could join the army.
Every day, I felt torn. In my effort to achieve my own dream, I was collecting information that might someday destroy Marco’s beloved homeland. The more I learned of the lovely waterways of Venezia and the grand cathedrals of Rome, the more I realized that conquest by the Khan’s troops might harm them more than help them.
Seventh Moon waxed hot, and Eighth Moon hotter. Women sat in the shadiest parts of the garden and fanned themselves with silk fans. Men cursed, hopped on their horses, and rode far afield. This was the hottest summer Xanadu had ever seen.
Marco continued to amuse the Khan with his stories, but I was not invited again. Suren and Temur were sometimes invited. From what Suren told me, it seemed that Marco learned quickly what type of stories pleased the Khan—mostly tales of the lands he had visited on his travels, the quirks and lore of the people he had observed.
Suren began to teach me a little swordsmanship, though we had to do it in secret. He passed on to me what he had learned from the sword master. We arose early each morning to spend several hours practicing, in a small clearing hidden in the woods.
By late in Eighth Moon, I was growing worried. The summer was nearing its end and I had not discovered any information about Marco