entrusted me with an assignment. I would have to try my best.
O n the third day, we arrived at our summer home in Xanadu. A few days after that, I armed myself for my first meeting alone with Marco Polo. I brought my bow and arrows, both hanging from leather straps on my waistband. While I did not intend to use them, I wanted the foreigner to see me as formidable.
My uncle Chimkin told me where to find Marco Polo’s tent. I was to treat the green-eyed man as a guest and to see him every day. Without arousing his suspicion, I was to gather information about the kings and princes of his land—how they maintained their dignity, how they administered their dominions, and how they went forth to battle. After each meeting, I was to report back to my uncle.
Overnight, it had rained heavily—the kind of weather that made Xanadu into a garden spot. As I walked across the wet grass, the sunlight angled through the clouds. Still, my hair stuck to my head. The rain had washed much of thewhite powder off my cheeks, exposing my bruises, which were fading to yellow. A bruised face might protect me against unwanted advances.
The Latin was standing outside his tent, looking toward the low row of hills that surrounded Xanadu. When he heard my footsteps behind him, he whirled around, and his hand reached for his dagger. “Who goes there?” he asked.
My hand rushed to my own dagger, and my heart quickened. I was face to face with a dangerous, armed foreigner. Then I shook my head, appalled at his slow reaction. If I had ill intentions, he would be dead by now.
When he realized who I was, his face broke into a smile of relief and pleasure. “Emmajin Beki. I am honored.” He replaced his dagger and bowed in his Latin way, one hand in front, one behind. “What brings you here this morning?”
I took a deep breath. “The Khan has asked me to host you here in Xanadu, to show you the grounds.”
He grinned too broadly at this news.
I set my mouth in a firm line, and his smile faded.
“You would prefer not to?”
“I do as the Great Khan asks.”
He seemed ill at ease, as if disappointed and uncertain what to do or say.
Not only was this the first time I had had a direct conversation with a foreigner, but it was also the first time I had spoken to a man not related to me without my family present. I didn’t even know what to call him. Almost every man I knew was a relative, called uncle or brother. I needed to show him I was in command. “Today, we will ride in the hills.”
He bowed his head, appropriately humble. “As you wish.”
“Leave your dagger here,” I said. He dropped his weapon just inside his tent.
Relieved to be moving, I turned and strode toward the horse pasture. The foreigner hastened to catch up to me, but I stayed one pace ahead. I had decided to take him riding, because it would be easier to keep my distance from him on horseback.
We reached a spot where several horses were tethered to a rope stretched high between two poles. I told the horse boy to saddle up my palomino stallion as well as a tawny mare for the visitor.
The Latin man stood awkwardly by my side, his breath at the level of my ears. I could smell a strange perfume of pungent cloves on his curls. It felt wrong to stand so close to a foreign man. Once I had mounted Baatar, I felt much more comfortable.
But Marco hesitated. “I’ve never ridden on a Mongolian saddle,” he said. How strange. I looked at the wooden saddle, its familiar curved shape high in the front and back, painted red with silver medallions. What kind of primitive saddle did this man use?
He fumbled, trying to mount. I could not fathom how this man had traveled for three years from the end of the world and never learned how to ride on a proper Mongolian saddle. I had learned to ride before I could walk.
Once on the horse, he kicked her in the sides! The mare flinched. Didn’t he know it was wrong to kick a horse? I reached over to his steed and steadied her with a
O n the third day, we arrived at our summer home in Xanadu. A few days after that, I armed myself for my first meeting alone with Marco Polo. I brought my bow and arrows, both hanging from leather straps on my waistband. While I did not intend to use them, I wanted the foreigner to see me as formidable.
My uncle Chimkin told me where to find Marco Polo’s tent. I was to treat the green-eyed man as a guest and to see him every day. Without arousing his suspicion, I was to gather information about the kings and princes of his land—how they maintained their dignity, how they administered their dominions, and how they went forth to battle. After each meeting, I was to report back to my uncle.
Overnight, it had rained heavily—the kind of weather that made Xanadu into a garden spot. As I walked across the wet grass, the sunlight angled through the clouds. Still, my hair stuck to my head. The rain had washed much of thewhite powder off my cheeks, exposing my bruises, which were fading to yellow. A bruised face might protect me against unwanted advances.
The Latin was standing outside his tent, looking toward the low row of hills that surrounded Xanadu. When he heard my footsteps behind him, he whirled around, and his hand reached for his dagger. “Who goes there?” he asked.
My hand rushed to my own dagger, and my heart quickened. I was face to face with a dangerous, armed foreigner. Then I shook my head, appalled at his slow reaction. If I had ill intentions, he would be dead by now.
When he realized who I was, his face broke into a smile of relief and pleasure. “Emmajin Beki. I am honored.” He replaced his dagger and bowed in his Latin way, one hand in front, one behind. “What brings you here this morning?”
I took a deep breath. “The Khan has asked me to host you here in Xanadu, to show you the grounds.”
He grinned too broadly at this news.
I set my mouth in a firm line, and his smile faded.
“You would prefer not to?”
“I do as the Great Khan asks.”
He seemed ill at ease, as if disappointed and uncertain what to do or say.
Not only was this the first time I had had a direct conversation with a foreigner, but it was also the first time I had spoken to a man not related to me without my family present. I didn’t even know what to call him. Almost every man I knew was a relative, called uncle or brother. I needed to show him I was in command. “Today, we will ride in the hills.”
He bowed his head, appropriately humble. “As you wish.”
“Leave your dagger here,” I said. He dropped his weapon just inside his tent.
Relieved to be moving, I turned and strode toward the horse pasture. The foreigner hastened to catch up to me, but I stayed one pace ahead. I had decided to take him riding, because it would be easier to keep my distance from him on horseback.
We reached a spot where several horses were tethered to a rope stretched high between two poles. I told the horse boy to saddle up my palomino stallion as well as a tawny mare for the visitor.
The Latin man stood awkwardly by my side, his breath at the level of my ears. I could smell a strange perfume of pungent cloves on his curls. It felt wrong to stand so close to a foreign man. Once I had mounted Baatar, I felt much more comfortable.
But Marco hesitated. “I’ve never ridden on a Mongolian saddle,” he said. How strange. I looked at the wooden saddle, its familiar curved shape high in the front and back, painted red with silver medallions. What kind of primitive saddle did this man use?
He fumbled, trying to mount. I could not fathom how this man had traveled for three years from the end of the world and never learned how to ride on a proper Mongolian saddle. I had learned to ride before I could walk.
Once on the horse, he kicked her in the sides! The mare flinched. Didn’t he know it was wrong to kick a horse? I reached over to his steed and steadied her with a
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