Daughter of Xanadu - Dori Jones Yang [89]
The atmosphere was festive. Men, women, and children, Cathayans, Mongols, and foreigners mingled along the sides of the avenue, watching and pointing, raising their children to their shoulders, cheering and laughing.
“It’s Prince Temur!” one boy shouted.
“Temur! Temur!” others echoed in joyful voices. “Returned from the South!”
Finally, I was entering the city of Khanbalik in a victory parade, but without Suren. No one recognized me or shouted my name. Our triumph at Vochan had not won me celebrity. Instead, they cheered this man who had marched into Kinsay without a fight. After the horrors and losses of battle, I still did not get to enjoy the victory parade that Suren and I had desired so ardently. It felt like an insult to Suren’s memory.
I had hoped the Great Khan himself would greet us, but he was on his annual spring hunting trip. Abaji gathered us just inside the palace gate, praised us for our service to the Khan in battle, and instructed us to return to our families for a rest of twenty days.
I dismounted, handed Baatar’s reins to a servant, and headed to my parents’ courtyard. Everything looked different to me. The great audience halls of the palace seemed larger and grander. But after seeing Nesruddin’s smaller, elegant palace by the lake, the Khan’s palace seemed ostentatious.
After months on the road, eating simple meals with my companions around open fires, riding with the wind in my face, wearing the same uniform day after day, the everyday luxuries of court life seemed excessive. On the road, we had talked of war and peace and the future of mankind. Here, people talked of minor spats and spread rumors of concubines who flirted with guards. My cheeks had grown ruddy from exposure to the elements, and here women rubbed lotions on their cheeks to keep them smooth.
As I walked toward the back of the Khan’s palace, no one greeted or recognized me. A hard spot around my heart began to throb.
When I entered my home, my mother rushed out to greet me. She grabbed both my hands as if I were still a young girl. The top of her head reached no higher than my nose. She leaned back and examined my face, my arms, my body, looking for wounds.
“Were you injured, my daughter?” she asked.
“No, not at all.” I squeezed her hand. “But … Suren …” Suddenly, I was weeping like a girl with a gaping wound that would never heal. It was the first time I had cried after Suren’s death. Here, at home, it was safe to mourn.
Small as she was, my mother embraced me, just above my waist, and laid her head against my shoulder. She hugged me so tightly that my breath came in gasps. Her hair, flattened with a fragrant oil, exuded the flowery scent I remembered from childhood. I, too, hugged her so tight I thought I might squeeze the breath from her.
Drolma seemed happy to see me, but the gulf between us was wider than ever. During my absence, my parents had arranged a marriage for her, with Jebe, son of the general who had dismissed me.
“General Aju said I was exactly the kind of daughter-in-law he wanted,” Drolma told me with pride. I was bursting to tell stories, of the lion I had killed, of the dragon hunt, of the battle. But they didn’t want to hear of my adventures. Drolma only wanted to tell me the latest court gossip.
That night, I slept in my old bed with my sister. I retired early, overcome with six months’ worth of exhaustion. What had been the point of trying so hard to be a soldier, to fight like a man and keep riding day after day? Here I was, back where I had started, like a maiden who had never left her father’s ger. I had still been able to smell the pungent wind of the farmlands and the sweat of the army on my outer clothing. But once I’d taken my army clothing off and lain down under my sister’s quilt, all I could smell was her perfume. My body felt tired and heavy, yet my mind was swirling. I felt sad, bitter, lost.
The next morning, my mother