Daughter of Xanadu - Dori Jones Yang [5]
I had always loved outdoor pursuits, the wind on my cheeks as I raced on horseback, the tension in my arm as I pulled back the bowstring, the pleasure of hitting the target perfectly. I loved listening to war stories and could recite the tales of all the legendary Mongol heroes. But at that moment, I knew I wanted something more.
I wanted to be a soldier in the Khan’s army.
That evening, the Khan’s grandchildren flocked to a courtyard to listen to the court storyteller, called Old Master, recount the tale of the army’s latest victory. Bundled up in furs to ward off the chilly spring evening air, they sat shoulder to shoulder around an outdoor fire, wriggling and giggling. The Great Khan had twenty-two sons by his official wives and twenty-five sons by his concubines, so there were countless grandchildren.
Suren and I, the eldest of this generation, stood near the back, looking over the heads of the smaller boys and girls. We both loved war stories—the bloodier, the better.
Tales that made my sister squirm inspired my imagination. I especially loved the ones that showed the military brilliance and valor of the Great Ancestor, my great-great-grandfather Chinggis Khan, founder of the Mongol Empire. I remembered with pleasure the story of how he drove the enemy army into a dead-end valley, then pretended to withdraw his troops. As the enemy soldiers filed out of the valley, the Mongol horsemen used their arrows to pick them off, row by row, saving arrows and Mongol lives.
While we waited for Old Master to begin, I tried to remember if I had heard any stories about Mongol women soldiers. One of Chinggis Khan’s four wives had gone to battle with him. Sometimes Chinggis Khan had asked Mongol women to line up on horseback, along with horses carrying fake men made of straw, on the ridge of a hill, to fool the enemy into thinking our army was three times as big. A famous Chinese woman, Mulan, had fought against our ancestors, although she had disguised herself as a man.
Of course, many Mongol women had shown great strength. Chinggis Khan’s mother had held the family together after his father died. Robbed of all livestock, she had lived by digging up the roots of wild onions and other vegetables until her sons grew up to be fine, daring men. Chinggis Khan’s first wife had demonstrated courage and loyalty despite being kidnapped by an enemy tribe. And Khubilai Khan’s mother had, by sheer determination, trained her sons to earn the right to take over the leadership of the Empire even though their father, the youngest son of Chinggis Khan, had not been chosen as successor. Although my grandmother Empress Chabi was a quiet and gentle Buddhist, the blood of all these earlier strong women flowed in my veins.
It seemed, though, that the days of strong women had ended once luxurious court life had begun. Now all Mongol women cared about was fine clothing, rich food, and pearls. And finding good husbands for their daughters. At that moment, my sister, Drolma, two years younger than I, was sitting with other girls, exchanging court gossip, which she found more interesting than the battle stories. I wished I had been alive during the early days of the Mongol Empire, when our armies had pushed into unknown territories, and women had enjoyed many opportunities for adventure.
Old Master walked into the courtyard, carrying a bulging bag. Some of the younger boys begged him to say what was in it, but he refused. The children quieted down as Old Master began his tale. I leaned forward, to catch every detail.
This victory was different, he told us. For months, even years, the Mongol army had laid siege to the Chinese city of Hsiangyang. Behind thick walls, the citizens starved rather than let the Mongols win.
Cowards, I thought. In a true battle, two armies, both on horseback, faced each other and fought until victory.
Old Master continued his story. After several years of stalemate, the Great Khan asked his nephew, the Il-khan of Persia, to send him two talented Persian engineers,