Cornered by the comment, Reyhan found no other refuge but to disclose a secret. Hulagu was building a palace for Dounia and intended to surprise her with the finished structure, prior to leaving for Kievan Rus.
The major renovations at Karakorum were Reyhan’s idea. She had suggested changing an old structure at the far end of the premises that resembled a Chinese pavilion into a European style palatial edifice. She had shared her plans for the project with Hulagu and recommended redoing the palace, hoping to pacify Dounia. Hulagu had ordered the renovations during Dounia’s illness, using the help of craftsmen from different parts of Europe who were now at the Mongol leader’s command.
“I told Sorkhokhtani that you missed the place where you grew up. Hulagu intends to give you as a present, a palace almost exactly like the one you had in Europe; including gardens and a pond with swans imported from Hungary.”
Dounia’s large sky-blue eyes grew even larger at Reyhan’s disclosure.
“Oh, and there’s more. An artisan from a faraway land called Paris has built this incredible silver fountain there.”
“Paris,” Dounia repeated, apparently entranced by the idea. French dignitaries frequented the Polish court where Dounia grew up, and she had traveled to France as a young child on one occasion, accompanied by her family.
“The bejeweled tree that forms the body of the fountain is taller than the height of four men with branches reaching the top windows of the palace. Four golden dragons hang from its boughs, out of the mouths of which flow all manners of wine. An angel stands on top of the tree, and like magic, the trumpet she holds makes a noise, and bells ring when a certain lever is activated.”
Dounia, speechless with excitement, nodded for Reyhan to continue.
“Pears covered with pearls and apples covered with rubies hang from the tree. Four golden lions with sapphire eyes stand at its base as if guarding the fountain.”
“Hulagu has done all that . . . for me?” Dounia asked.
“I have been told the garden will be breathtakingly beautiful in spring with wisteria trees blooming in it.”
“I have got to see it now and cannot wait,” Dounia said.
“We would have to disguise ourselves if you want to venture near those premises.”
“Oh, that would be such an adventure,” Dounia said, her excitement visible in her expression.
“We cannot go there dressed as princesses,” Reyhan said, laughing. “I will ask Shura to help us out with this scheme.”
That same evening, Dounia and Reyhan, camouflaged in the garbs of washerwomen, left their chambers to visit the new structure, about three thousand paces from Reyhan’s Palace. Obscurity had its merits, for one’s self-consciousness does not cloud one’s mind. The two women, unchained from all ceremonial obligations, frolicked and laughed like children on their way to Dounia’s new abode.
An earlier drizzle had layered the dry grounds, releasing an earthy scent. Here and there a torch was burning, lighting their way and filling their hearts with anticipation. The sight, when they finally arrived, exceeded their loftiest expectations. Tall and majestic, cream-colored marble covered the exterior of the palace with its Gothic spires embellished with gray stones. Marble statues of soldiers and maidens stood at intervals, carved onto the building’s facade.
The fantastic fountain installed by a French artisan sprang from the center of the garden. Dounia accidentally touched the lever, and four drinks of different colors began pouring out of the mouths of the dragons. The sound of the trumpet rose as several bells installed on top of the contraption began ringing. It woke up the temporary occupants, including Hulagu who had returned from the fronts unannounced. He had been spending the night in the newly built structure to make his final inspection in the morning. He ran outside to see what the matter was, only to find Dounia there with Reyhan, dressed like the poorest of his servants. Moments later, when he discovered their ruse, the look of concern faded from his face, and he began to boom with laughter. He then offered to lead the two ladies on a tour of the palace.
“Do you think this will keep our little European dove’s mind preoccupied while I am away?” Hulagu whispered to Reyhan in one of the rooms when Dounia was busy examining the wall paintings in another.
“Maybe for a while; having a baby might be another,” Reyhan said, laughing.
Dounia who must have heard their laughter joined them. “What is all the mirth about?” she asked.
“Following my grandfather’s footsteps in reaching out to allies, I intend to visit my cousin Batu who now leads the Golden Horde,” Hulagu said. “It is my wish that you accompany me on this formal visit to Kievan Rus.”
“Oh, I would love to. When will this be?” Dounia asked.
“At the onset of autumn, we shall depart. There are issues that I must tend to first, so you have plenty of time to prepare for the journey.”
Chapter Seventeen
Golden Ringlets
A dark shadow of gloom fell upon Karakorum as news reached Hulagu that his ailing mother had passed away. Sorkhokhtani had been ill with consumption for months while visiting Kublai with her health deteriorating further each day. Her funeral was held in the main cathedral of the Chinese region of Gansu, and she was buried in the grounds of that church.
The sorrow was short-lived though, with the excitement of the journey ahead to Kievan Rus pacifying Hulagu and drying up Dounia’s tears. Reyhan was not so easily consoled and continued to mourn the loss of her friend.
Early one morning, Dounia found Reyhan in a serious mood when she was about to leave for the stables and ride her favorite mare. Although Reyhan had been melancholy since the death of her friend, her expression showed irritation instead of sadness. When Dounia asked what bothered her she said, “You should not have a haughty attitude toward the poor and destitute or those that you call commoners. Remember how Sorkhokhtani used to care for the poor. A simple turn of events or an unfortunate happening may lead one to become one of them. Their poverty is no fault of their own and no indication of the baseness of their character.”
Reyhan was referring to an episode she had witnessed the previous day with Dounia demanding that her seamstress should redo an outfit which needed minor repair. Dounia understood what Reyhan was referring to and blushed.
“Haughtiness is no virtue Dounia, you need to reach out to those who are beneath you, and you will find loving hearts and caring souls,” Reyhan said as she rolled a sheet of paper into a cone and placed some cookies in it for Dounia to munch on as she headed for the stables.
On her way there, Dounia suddenly noticed a small boy of about seven, quite thin in stature and with golden hair! At first, she thought it was the reflection of the sun on the boy’s head that made his brown ringlets look golden, but she was not mistaken. She walked toward him and asked where he was from while speaking Mongolian. He gave no response.
“Jak ci na imie?” she tried asking for his name in Polish. No answer. She tried Russian. Again. No answer. Persian, “Esmet chieh?” No luck. The boy just stared and smiled, exposing two missing front teeth.
Probably a slave, Dounia thought and offered him the paper cone filled with cookies. The boy’s grin widened, and after gratefully accepting the token with soot-covered hands, he ran to show off his goodies to other children.
Days later, when Dounia came to the stable to fetch her horse, the same little boy approached her. There was something in the boy’s movement as he stood on the tips of his toes like a butterfly, opening his hands like wings. He handed over to Dounia a bunch of wildflowers he had gathered with flowering weeds tucked in between. The look in his eyes, his smile, touched Dounia to the core. She bent down and embraced the poor child.
Entry by Krisztina:
We are soon to depart for Kievan Rus. I look forward to the journey ahead. Sorkhokhtani’s passing away was such a blow, particularly for Reyhan who se
ems to have aged since she heard the news. The excitement of the upcoming journey, however, allows me to focus on more pleasant things than death which reaps souls in greater numbers than any other time in history.
Hulagu did not mourn his mother’s death the way he did his father’s. Although I was not present at the time, Reyhan told me how devastated he was when Touli Khan died. I wonder what he would have thought of me as his daughter-in-law if he were alive.
My attitude toward commoners and subjects of the Mongols has changed since Reyhan spoke to me about them, and I found this young boy with blond hair among the slaves. He reminded me of Wiktor when he was a child. I still cannot stand the idea of living a life of poverty but feel for them and understand how difficult their lives are. I also feel sorry for their children who are likely to lead lives of poverty as well. I miss my own childhood too. What a carefree and delightful era it was and how soon it came to an end.
Chapter Eighteen
Sarai Batu
(The Home of Batu)
A sheer layer of gold reflected off the wings of a group of sparrows soaring toward the sky. Leaves had begun to imitate the different shades of fire, and the smell of birch wood burning in fireplaces filled the air. Autumn had arrived in all its abundance in Sarai Batu, the Mongol capital in Kievan Rus territories. Fruits were harvested and made into pies, and candles were lit early in the afternoon, as the sun began to set quite soon at the end of the day. Trees with heavy trunks clawed their roots deeper into the ground as their leaves formed colorful skirts upon the earth. Apple trees, the cheeks of their offspring having ripened for the season, had their produce harvested and carried to the markets of the town. Maidens filled jam jars and readied pickles for the long winter ahead. Smoke from the chimneys rose to greet the light fog of autumn.
Nature remained the only unchanged aspect of life in that part of the world. Every other aspect was transformed by the Mongol invasion. The cold winds ushered in the news of Princess Krisztina, once betrothed to Prince Mstislav, arriving at her adopted homeland of Kievan Rus. The idea of a former Kievan royal visiting the territories, even as a member of the Mongol court, brought a surge of hope to the hearts of the devastated inhabitants. After all, she symbolized the return of their long-lost honor. Although now allied to the Mongols, Dounia still symbolized Kievan Rus in all its beauty and grandeur, standing tall and proud like the queen that she was and would always be.
Strands of Dounia’s golden hair caressed the fur lining of her cap as the wind blew in her face. Her thick braid cascaded down one shoulder. Wearing a fur-lined leather coat dyed scarlet, she disembarked along with the other members of the entourage and entered a platform upon which a group of Mongolian and Rus dignitaries awaited them, carrying gifts of different sorts for the visiting royals. Not all spectators looked happy. Upon arrival, some openly frowned at the sight of a former Rus Princess standing by the side of a Mongol Emperor and visiting like a foreigner with no ties to the country. But most people greeted Dounia with smiles. Dounia, in turn, tried to appear unaffected by the frowns and smiled back affectionately at those who were pleased to see her.
Batu welcomed Hulagu, the latter looked quite impressed by the Mongol rule that Batu had established in that part of the world. Batu embraced his cousin warmly and appeared equally impressed by Dounia’s beauty and elegance. The inhabitants, in general, had adapted well to the new circumstances, although Dounia later heard that they considered living under foreign rule as the Mongol yoke.
Dounia decided to step away from the rest of the delegation and reached beyond the braided barrier rope to shake hands with the spectators. It was as if this sweet, humble gesture melted the hearts of the reluctant ones as well, instantly turning the entire crowd into her admirers. Nosegays of flowers were offered to her, and many reached out to shake hands with her. They chanted her name as they pushed one another to get closer to their princess.
The streets of Sarai Batu were paved in wood, something Dounia had never laid eyes on before. The land was unique in its splendor and charm. Seeing it for the first time thrilled Dounia. War damages had mostly been repaired, and newly built structures could be seen here and there. Colorful domes stood like turbans on top of cylindrical buildings. Flowerpots adorned the front yards and eyes peeped from beyond upper floor windows, for all were curious to see the newly arrived delegation.
The surviving Rus aristocrats appeared ostensibly humbled. Gone were the days of luxurious attire and extravagant parties described to Dounia in detail by Mstislav. As she soon learned, except for the segments occupied by the new Mongol rulers, old palaces and other institutions of governance had become run-down. With their sources of wealth and prestige depleted, the former Rus nobles had lost their popular base. Citizens paid tributes directly to the new rulers, and the former politicians and decision-makers that had yielded to the Mongols were sidelined. Only occasionally, and mostly during visits by foreign dignitaries, did the old Rus aristocracy appear on the scene as part of the background to prove Mongol benevolence toward former members of the court.
Batu had allowed some Rus officials, who had accepted the Mongol rule and had agreed to pay tribute on a regular basis to the Golden Horde, to hold municipal positions. These old aristocrats looked subdued and avoided wearing the gold-embroidered outfits they once owned. Instead, they were at times indistinguishable from low-ranking clerks. Few retained the role of advisor to the new rulers. Among them was a man by the name of Arseni of whom Mstislav had spoken at length, telling Dounia that he had little trust in the man and always eyed him with suspicion.
Dounia immediately associated the name with the description when they were introduced and knew he was the one Mstislav had warned her about. Arseni was a tall man with dark hair and a sinister smile. He used to work as a high-ranking counselor to the court of the Rus Prince. Dounia could envision him accommodating every Mongol’s wish in order to retain his status.
As she followed Hulagu and Batu, she tried to take in the splendor of the corridors of the palace through which they walked. Magnificent painted ceilings arched above her head, and life-size portraits of former Rus aristocrats hung from the walls, reminders of an era that had come to an abrupt end half a decade earlier. Apparently, the new rulers were so impressed by the richly painted works of art that they did not discard them.
The delegation moved toward a set of stairs by the side of which Dounia could see Mstislav’s private chamber. She was certain of that fact for his name, although faded with the passage of time, still remained carved upon the door. Before the war, the room was used for private meetings and high-level discussions.
Mstislav had told her before he died that special paddings were used between the layered walls of this particular chamber so that conversations were not heard by outsiders. Mongols apparently did not know about its soundproof quality and considered it a storage room for unwanted items, for it was made to appear as such.
Deeply impressed by the portraits hung on the walls, Dounia had fallen a few steps behind the other dignitaries. With a swift motion, Arseni grabbed Dounia’s elbow. The urgency of the matter he seemed to have in mind, flashed in his eyes as he said, “I need to speak with you privately, now.” He then pushed her toward the chamber, placing a firm grip upon her mouth to prevent her from screaming.
Once inside, Arseni locked the door and released his grip on her. Carved furniture of rosewood, covered in dust, stood on a time-worn Persian rug. There were no windows to the room, and no paintings or decorations could be seen except a veneer of mahogany wood that covered the walls from corner to corner.
“What manner of greeting a guest is this?” Dounia asked, shocked and resentful.
“Listen to me,” he demanded, “that is if you care about your sister.”
“My sister?”
“Your younger sister Zofia is alive and well but will be killed if you do not cooperate with me.”
“Where
is she? Can I see her?” Dounia’s heartbeat quickened when she heard the name.
“That is not possible yet. However, if you play your part to my satisfaction, such a meeting can be arranged in the near future.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Encourage your husband, and his brother the emperor, to attack Baghdad and Damascus rather than Christendom.” He stared at her for a moment or two with his black eyes and gripped her arm more tightly.
“Don’t forget I am a Mongol royal now. God help you if you harm my sister in any way,” Dounia hissed as he let go of her.
“Sleeping with the enemy must have its privileges. If you betray me or disobey my order, not even the Mongols can come to your sister’s rescue,” Arseni replied.
He abruptly opened the door, allowing Dounia to exit while giving her a meaningful smile and pointing to the main dining hall where she was to join Hulagu.
Shaken by the incident, Dounia entered the hall to sit at the elegant table set for the guests. The Rus aristocrats weren’t the only ones that had undergone change. Batu had changed too since the last time Dounia and Hulagu had seen him. Rus cultural influences could be seen everywhere in his court. Even the food served, although still consisting mostly of animal meat, bore the Rus signature decorations with which Dounia was familiar. Whole cooked lambs and fowls with floral designs drawn on them with creams and jams had their eye-sockets filled with fruit. They took center stage on the elaborately carved surface of a long table of walnut wood.
An attendant carried a fabulous bouquet of chrysanthemums for the reception with such pomp as if the arrangement ornamented him. He placed it in the middle of the long table. Batu politely acknowledged Dounia with a smile as she sat next to her husband and congratulated Hulagu for his brother Mongke’s ascension to power.
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