Daughter of Xanadu - Dori Jones Yang [84]
As I rode each day under the winter gray of the mountain skies, I thought about the future. Marco and I had never spoken words of love to each other. And certainly we had never discussed the possibility of a life together. But despite my anger at Marco, I realized that he was precious to me now. Suren’s death had taught me how vain it was to put my desire for glory above my love for others.
I looked forward to arriving at Nesruddin’s palace, hoping I would find time there to relax with Marco. Now that my feelings toward him had changed, I needed to think about what my choices might be. I wished I could come up with some way to keep Marco with me. It was tempting to imagine running off with him. But where would we go? To Venezia? His father and uncle had remained in Khanbalik, and they would be punished, possibly executed, if Marco ran off with a princess from the imperial court. The Khan’s power extended throughout his Empire. We were near the border and could slip outside the empire quickly, but across the border was Burma, territory of the enemy.
Could Marco and I get married somehow? I laughed silently at the image of my father, Prince Dorji, and Marco’s father, Niccolo Polo, toasting each other at a wedding banquet. It was impossible. Granddaughters of the Khan were valuable property, to be offered in marriage only to men of allied clans as a reward for loyalty and service. Marrying me to a Latin merchant and storyteller would be like throwing a diamond into a dung pile. I hoped that battlefield glory would give me the right to refuse any more marriage offers. But no one in the royal family would accept Marco as a suitable mate.
Besides, as much as he meant to me, I cringed at the idea of becoming Marco’s wife. That would mean moving out of the Khan’s court and into the cramped rooms Marco shared with his father and uncle. I would no longer be the Great Khan’s granddaughter but the wife of a merchant. Marco would not stay in China forever. I would have to go to Venezia when he was ready. As attractive as Venezia sounded, I had no desire to leave the center of the world and go live in a waterlogged city so far outside the realm of the known that it took more than three years to get there. I would be as foreign there as Marco was here.
Traveling with Marco would allow me to see the world. But it would mean leaving my homeland forever. I imagined the life of a traveling merchant: stirring pots over campfires, plodding along on camelback for days on end, living among uncivilized barbarians who could not speak my language.
A merchant’s wife—it reminded me of the famous Tang poem “The Lute Girl.” In it, a woman sadly plucked her lute, remembering the days of her youth, when all admired her musical skills. When she grew older, she was forced to become “a trader’s wife, the chattel of a slave, whose lord was gold.”
No, marrying Marco was out of the question. But what could I do, an unmarried princess, granddaughter of the Khan, veteran of the battle of Vochan? My brain hurt as I pushed it for answers.
Finally, the day before we reached Nesruddin’s palace, I found a chance to talk to Marco. During a steep uphill climb, I deliberately slowed my horse and dropped behind the others, to the back of the line, where Marco was riding with a servant.
“I hope you are not too tired, Messer Marco,” I began as his horse pulled up next to mine. I could not bring myself to apologize for my outburst after the battle, and the intervening days had made me more eager to see him.
In a short meeting of our eyes, I could see both pleasure and concern in his. “Thank you. I am not too tired, Emmajin Beki.” The soldier behind me was not close