Daughter of Xanadu - Dori Jones Yang [88]
All winter long, Temur told us, the Great Khan had received news of victory after victory, as General Bayan Chincsan and the Mongol army conquered twelve major cities in southern China. Everyone had been expecting a huge battle at Kinsay, with great loss of life, because they had expected the Chinese to defend their capital to the last man. Then came a messenger with the great news: Kinsay had fallen without a battle.
The empress of South China, mother of the six-year-old boy emperor, had called in an astrologer when the Mongol forces had surrounded Kinsay. The astrologer reminded her of a forecast her late husband, the emperor, had been told as a young man: only a man with one hundred eyes could rob them of their kingdom. Back then, the forecast had been seen as good news. But when the empress learned General Bayan’s name, which, when said in Chinese, sounds like “hundred eyes,” she surrendered and handed over the imperial seal.
Full of confidence, Temur seemed mature and articulate. With his slim body and handsome, wide-set eyes, he looked more the part of a crown prince than Suren had. I could see in their eyes how much the other soldiers admired Temur. Still, his manner was arrogant. He was too eager to step into Suren’s empty boots.
“Good news indeed!” Abaji slapped his thigh. “When is the victory parade?”
A pang shot through me. I had envisioned returning to Khanbalik as part of a victory parade. Now I was returning with a straggling group of soldiers, victors of a distant battle. Our hard-fought win on the plain of Vochan, against such great odds, paled in comparison to the conquest of all southern China. Would the Khan value our victory?
“General Bayan is on his way back from the South, bringing the empress and the young boy emperor. They should arrive in ten days or so.”
“Good. So we will arrive in time for the parade—and for the beheading.” Abaji’s voice sounded eager.
I shivered. A Chinese queen and her young son would now face the wrath of the Khan of all Khans. Their execution would send an essential message, I knew, a warning to all who dared to resist Mongol conquest, including the kings of Burma and Zipangu. Sparing the enemy’s rulers was not an option. It would encourage others tempted to resist.
But to me, at that moment, the public execution of a woman and child in the streets of Khanbalik seemed barbaric.
Khanbalik was brimming with a sense of pride in Mongol greatness. From the moment we rode into the capital under the huge arch of the south gate, with its curved blue roofs, I could feel the exuberance. Scattered crowds near the gate had been waiting for the arrival of General Bayan with the Chinese empress and her son. People surged forward to look at us, soldiers traveling under the Khan’s banner. It was hard to keep riding in formation, and Baatar shied and whinnied.
“General Bayan!” a man shouted in Mongolian, and more men moved forward.
“No, not yet!” one of Temur’s soldiers responded. “General Abaji, returning from a victory in the Southwest.”
“General Abaji, returning from the South!” someone shouted. The announcement was echoed in Cathayan, and a cheer rose around us.
Everyone seemed to realize that we were living at a historic moment. It had been sixty years since Chinggis Khan began the conquest of China by sacking the northern Chinese capital of Yenjing, which later became Khanbalik. For decades, we Mongols had controlled North China. Now, with the conquest of Kinsay, his grandson Khubilai Khan had unified all of China, north and south, under Mongol rule. A new era was beginning, full of the promise of harmony.
General Abaji rode down the main avenue of the capital in a stately manner. Temur followed him, holding high the Khan’s white horse-tail banner. The rest of us followed in formation. The half-grown trees lining the sides of the avenue had been wrapped in silk strips of yellow and white, contrasting