Daughter of Xanadu - Dori Jones Yang [55]
The next morning we set off early. It was the first day of a twenty-day journey west to the former Cathayan capital of Kenjanfu. From Baatar’s back, I could see that the land was fertile and carefully cultivated, with frequent towns and villages, but the people seemed poor and tattered. The once-rich land had been devastated by earlier wars. The Khan was trying to rebuild prosperity in this region. How would Marco view this poverty?
The journey was easy at first, a ride through farmland and woodlands and over rolling hills on well-tended roads, with excellent hostels in most towns. Marco rode at the rear, near the pack mules. He seemed to be deliberately avoiding me. When I tried to catch his eye, he looked away.
Each night at dinner, Marco sat with Abaji. The soldiers quieted when Abaji told inspiring military stories about the brave exploits of our predecessors. I could not read Marco’s reaction. I wanted him to understand our history from our perspective. I wished he would charm Abaji with his storytelling, but he remained quiet.
At the end of each day, our troops held exercises so we would stay fit. Before dinner, we raced and practiced archery, and after dinner, we practiced swordsmanship. Occasionally, Marco watched, and I could feel his eyes on me. But he never approached me. Although I understood why he was avoiding me, I missed the way he had been during the summer, so deferential, so charming, so solicitous of me. This silence felt like a grievous loss.
During the long daily rides, I tried to remember Latin words. I reviewed each of the places in Xanadu where we had talked. Without considering the consequences, I tried to think of ways to talk to him, to overcome the barrier between us. If he had pursued me, I would have rebuffed him. By holding himself aloof, he challenged me to win back his esteem.
One night, less than ten days into the journey, an idea flashed into my mind. Captain Todogen raised his eyebrows when I told him of it, but he gave his permission. So I invited Marco to join our archery practice. I liked the idea that he might develop the manly skills that mattered to Mongols, but mostly I wanted a chance to interact with him. By reaching out to him and including him, perhaps I could make amends. My conscience still bothered me.
Marco refused, insisting he knew nothing of archery.
“Surely your people have bows,” I said in front of my squad mates.
“Not curved ones like yours. And merchants are not trained to shoot them.”
But I insisted, and the other soldiers seemed to like the idea. It would provide entertainment on what had quickly become a routine journey. Suren agreed to the plan. One afternoon several soldiers went to get Marco, and suddenly there he was, standing before me.
“We found him writing,” said one soldier, laughing, as if that were the most ridiculous thing a man could spend time doing. Marco seemed embarrassed.
I showed Marco where to stand, at a precise distance from the target, next to me. He hesitated, then stepped into place. He was so close I could feel the air vibrating between us like a newly released bowstring.
“You hold it like this.” I demonstrated with my bow. “Then pull back, aiming up. Then bring the bow straight down, like so.” I shot an arrow, which hit the target but not perfectly. Marco’s closeness had again distracted me. The soldiers acted as judges, gathering around the target and showing with their hands how far my shot was from the center.
I handed Marco my bow. “Try.”
Marco caught my eyes with a slight frown, as if saying, Why are you torturing me? But he turned to the soldiers watching him. “My friends, I am a merchant, not a soldier.” In a kindly way, they urged him on.
Finally, he took my bow and fitted the arrow onto it. The arrow kept sliding down.