had weakened his blood. Never in all these years had he felt the stab of the icy wind that swept the high passes and the steppe beyond; the tales of the great warriors were part of his very being. He could fight and ride with the best and had proved himself in battle on countless occasions. He was a young man and there were many who felt it was too early for him to hold the rank he enjoyed. But these men wisely kept their own counsel, not daring to share their thoughts even with their shadows for fear of angering the Great Khan who had appointed Temur to this position.
There was unrest in the kingdom. Temur’s concubine would have likened it to the dong zhi , the winter solstice, when the sleet whipped the stark, leafless branches of the cherry trees of Khanbalik and the wind blew in a steady, throbbing moan, causing the spirit great anguish. Bayan, the renegade general, was still holding the Karakorams, while Kaidu, cousin to the Great Khan, was in control of Xi Xia. These reports, sent every month by the governors of the provinces, were read out in the imperial chambers. Dissent and rebellion were creeping across the land. Three years ago, the emperor’s armies would have ridden out over far less significant provocations. But that was three years ago. Kublai Khan rarely attended these proceedings now and when he did, it was more for the purpose of asking about the expeditions he had sent off to distant lands.
For the past many months, the Great Khan had been sequestered in the inner palace, located almost at the heart of Khanbalik. Entry was restricted to the highest-born and that, too, by invitation only. None dared venture there of their own accord. The guardians of the palace, hand-picked soldiers of the imperial guard, habitually shot down crows flying overhead as part of their archery practice, fuelling local rumours about its impregnability. The palace staff and the ladies who entered its portals remained within for the rest of their lives. It was only their mortal remains which would leave through the brass gates. From the time the palace was built, twenty years ago, many of its occupants had been born within its high walls. Temur had heard that only Marco Polo, the barbarian traveller, enjoyed unrestricted access to the palace. For Temur, the day marked a special occasion: it was the first time he had been summoned to the palace. As he rode up the wide, cobbled streets, avoiding puddles from the previous night’s rain, he shivered again. Perhaps, he thought, news of the latest uprising in Annam had reached the Great Khan?
Temur had left his own bodyguard behind and as he approached the brass gates, he could see the archers on the towers position themselves, their arrows trained on him. Intercepted by the guards at the gates, flanked on either side by stone figures of huge demonic lions, Temur was made to deposit his weapons before being allowed to ride through. He entered the acres of lush grounds where gardeners worked diligently on the flower beds. He was escorted by a mounted chief of the guard, a huge, bearded Uighur, who wore the heavy fur hat of his race, adding inches to his own impressive height of seven feet and dwarfing the white Arabian steed he was riding. The Uighur’s voice was surprisingly soft and gentle as he spoke the lilting dialect of the mountain people, but he carried his broad, heavy scabbard unsheathed, leaving no doubt about the inviolability of his instructions. There were fountains all around them and on a clear, sunny morning, marquees would be put up on the terraced slopes of the small hillock overlooking the man-made lake. The sullen weather had probably forced the ladies inside, but Temur could visualize the pretty picture they would have made. No one paused to greet him or even glance his way, but he felt he was being watched as he approached the palace on horseback. He sensed rather than saw the faces at the small windows pulling back into the shadows the moment he turned his
There was unrest in the kingdom. Temur’s concubine would have likened it to the dong zhi , the winter solstice, when the sleet whipped the stark, leafless branches of the cherry trees of Khanbalik and the wind blew in a steady, throbbing moan, causing the spirit great anguish. Bayan, the renegade general, was still holding the Karakorams, while Kaidu, cousin to the Great Khan, was in control of Xi Xia. These reports, sent every month by the governors of the provinces, were read out in the imperial chambers. Dissent and rebellion were creeping across the land. Three years ago, the emperor’s armies would have ridden out over far less significant provocations. But that was three years ago. Kublai Khan rarely attended these proceedings now and when he did, it was more for the purpose of asking about the expeditions he had sent off to distant lands.
For the past many months, the Great Khan had been sequestered in the inner palace, located almost at the heart of Khanbalik. Entry was restricted to the highest-born and that, too, by invitation only. None dared venture there of their own accord. The guardians of the palace, hand-picked soldiers of the imperial guard, habitually shot down crows flying overhead as part of their archery practice, fuelling local rumours about its impregnability. The palace staff and the ladies who entered its portals remained within for the rest of their lives. It was only their mortal remains which would leave through the brass gates. From the time the palace was built, twenty years ago, many of its occupants had been born within its high walls. Temur had heard that only Marco Polo, the barbarian traveller, enjoyed unrestricted access to the palace. For Temur, the day marked a special occasion: it was the first time he had been summoned to the palace. As he rode up the wide, cobbled streets, avoiding puddles from the previous night’s rain, he shivered again. Perhaps, he thought, news of the latest uprising in Annam had reached the Great Khan?
Temur had left his own bodyguard behind and as he approached the brass gates, he could see the archers on the towers position themselves, their arrows trained on him. Intercepted by the guards at the gates, flanked on either side by stone figures of huge demonic lions, Temur was made to deposit his weapons before being allowed to ride through. He entered the acres of lush grounds where gardeners worked diligently on the flower beds. He was escorted by a mounted chief of the guard, a huge, bearded Uighur, who wore the heavy fur hat of his race, adding inches to his own impressive height of seven feet and dwarfing the white Arabian steed he was riding. The Uighur’s voice was surprisingly soft and gentle as he spoke the lilting dialect of the mountain people, but he carried his broad, heavy scabbard unsheathed, leaving no doubt about the inviolability of his instructions. There were fountains all around them and on a clear, sunny morning, marquees would be put up on the terraced slopes of the small hillock overlooking the man-made lake. The sullen weather had probably forced the ladies inside, but Temur could visualize the pretty picture they would have made. No one paused to greet him or even glance his way, but he felt he was being watched as he approached the palace on horseback. He sensed rather than saw the faces at the small windows pulling back into the shadows the moment he turned his
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