They had been traveling for more than three weeks. When the first rays of the sun became visible, they stopped at a caravansary to rest and replenish. Reyhan ordered the few horsemen accompanying her to take turns resting and guarding the chamber where she stayed. One of them hurried to fetch her some refreshments before she fell asleep.
At dusk, they got back on the road, speedily moving toward their destination. She could hear the howling of wolves in the distance. Soon a large pack of them approached the small caravan. These predators did not recognize the authority of the Mongols, and they did not abide by Yassa laws. Hunger and instinct had drawn them toward the travelers. The few dogs accompanying them barked at the wolves, but they were no match for the superior beasts. The wolves and dogs tore at each other’s flesh, and two of the horses came under attack as well.
One of the horses pulling Reyhan’s carriage fell to the wolves. The carriage began to sway, and it was about to fall over. But in a daring move, one Mongol horseman approached and quickly cut loose the dying horse, replacing it with his own steed while continuing to ride at the same speed as the caravan. The bloody confrontation left them with only three dogs. They lost two horses and sadly the camel as well.
In the rush to make it quickly to Hulagu’s bedside, it had not occurred to them to bring sharpshooters along. But the travelers were left intact and for that, Reyhan was grateful. Although shaken by the event, she had known that the journey would be treacherous and now it seemed that they had gotten through the worst part of it. She tried to steady herself in the carriage and gathered some blankets around her to stop her body from trembling. The last thing she needed was to become ill herself.
Upon arrival at the Mongol encampment, Reyhan found Hulagu in a dire condition. She had not forgiven Hulagu for the attack on Baghdad. However, today he laid on a sick bed a broken man, and for Dounia’s sake, she had to reach out to him. She tried to remember Hulagu not as he was now, the bloody conqueror of Baghdad and tormentor of Damascus, but as a child she once embraced and learned to love. She had blamed herself for days for his upbringing but then concluded that he was the true grandson of Genghis regardless of the impact she or anyone else could have had on him. He remained remorseless to the end.
Physicians from China and Persia were at Hulagu’s bedside, but Reyhan felt that maybe her presence, the kindness and love she had shown toward him since childhood, would provide a better remedy in helping him recover. That assumption proved to be correct.
Hulagu recuperated for a while; color returned to his pale face and indrawn cheeks. The wild look of his countenance brought on by fever changed to one of recognition and composure. But soon he fell feeble and weak back onto his pillow, moaning through deliriums and nightmares. One day he rose with the sun, eyes blood-shot, shirt drenched in a night sweat. He asked for a quill and a roll of paper to write his last will, instructing the Mongol army regarding the affairs he had in mind.
As he coughed, a drop of blood dripped from his lips and rolled down the page upon which he had written his instructions. It mixed with the black ink on the white paper which he crumbled and tossed across the room in extreme agony. Reyhan gave him a fresh sheet, and when this second attempt at writing ended, he fell back onto his pillow again and collapsed from the exertion.
Reyhan’s presence and motherly care revived the invalid temporarily. Yet, despite her efforts, Hulagu had become too weak, reducing his chances of survival. Realizing that he might soon leave this world, and with no clergy or minister being available, Reyhan felt that she must act as one. She built up the courage finally when she found him barely awake. “Do you believe in God, Hulagu?”
“Although I had converted to Christianity, in this final moment of my life it is Buddhism that I embrace. I have seen the impact of its teachings on my brother, Kublai. The people of China admire him, but I am despised in the lands that I have conquered.”
He looked into Reyhan’s face for a moment or two before adding, “Take care of Dounia and our baby for me.”
“You know I will,” Reyhan replied.
“Oh’ Reyhan, death is the final victor. No one is able to defeat it. Have them carry me and bury me in Maragheh, near the Sufi Chay River where you were born. My soul shall know your presence there, and I shall rest in peace,” he uttered with difficulty and permanently closed his eyes to the world.
Before Hulagu could truly fulfill his desire for greater conquests, destiny had ruled him out, and the Angel of Death claimed his soul. The wealth he had plundered, the lands he had conquered, the women he had captured, all were left to others. Wearing simple military attire, he was buried deep within the earth, leaving behind a bloody legacy. However, to those like Dounia, to whom he was not a world conqueror but a loving companion, his death dealt a heavy blow.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The Withering Rose
Dounia looked up. A lone vulture circled the sky, casting its dark shadow upon her body. She had stepped outdoors to take in the fresh air. The sight of the bird of prey brought a frown to her face, and she decided to go inside. She felt such trepidation in her heart, the like of which she had never felt before, a premonition that a calamity was soon to befall her. A sinking sensation in her gut told her things would not remain the same, and soon she would reach a precipice beyond which life would lose its meaning.
Dounia’s charitable activities that included reaching out to the poor had kept her busy during the few months that Reyhan was away. Her vocation had increased her popularity among the downtrodden people. The ladies of the court, however, considered her actions degrading to a member of the royal family.
Again and again, Dounia tried to imagine the moment of Hulagu’s triumphant arrival, a fennec fur cap on his head, standing tall before her, smiling at her. He had been a rock-solid mountain upon whom she had relied. But with Reyhan’s return, her hopes were crushed.
“I am sorry my dear, his doctors did all they could, and he revived for a short while under my constant care but . . .” she could not finish her sentence as tears rolled down her cheeks.
Color left Dounia’s face. Voices echoed in the room, words rumbled back and forth among the crowd that had gathered around her, but she could only hear her own screams that moved like a wave within her head. Reality had struck her a blow that shattered her hopes and dreams.
Messages of sympathy poured from dignitaries and officials all across the world, but none could soothe Dounia’s aching heart. Is God punishing me? she lamented. Is there no one to lift me out of the abyss into which I have fallen?
Dounia insisted on being left alone after assuring Reyhan that she would sleep. But she stayed up all night in her chamber. She lit a taper by the dark window. Eclipsed by the light of the moon, the candle’s light looked dim. The branches had woven their tentacles around the aging building as if ready to devour its innards. Dark green foliage covered parts of the windowpane, concealing her view. Her heart felt suppressed by despair. She had lost her loved ones and family in Poland, and now the only man who could have sustained her away from her homeland was gone. Life’s riches had turned into dust but little souvenirs of days gone by remained to torment her longing soul.
Dounia had long suspected that Reyhan also suffered privately, that she swallowed her anguish and silenced her cries, putting on a mask of tranquil dignity to ward off inquiring stares. At times, when she entered her chamber, an incessant stream of tears washed over Reyhan’s aging face, as if the dark sensation of guilt for involuntarily being an accomplice to the Mongols loosened its chokehold on her. Only when feeling absolutely wretched, did those secret expressions of grief, about the losses Persia had endured, turned into sobs barely audible to outsiders.
Their mutual pain drew the two women closer. They spent many afternoons having tea together in the garden. And when the weather became inclement, they sat in the parlor and chatted for long hours about the countries they had left behin
d, the loved ones they missed, and their mutual concerns for the future of the world.
Entry by Reyhan:
Hulagu’s death and witnessing Dounia’s dire situation has been a blow to me from which I believe I will not recover. I have experienced a withering autumn in life, and a cold winter has followed it, sapping away the spring of youth and the fruitful summer of middle age. Therefore, this may very well be my last entry.
Kublai has set the stage for the formation of a unified Chinese nation. Ariq Boke took charge in Mongolia but then fell out of Kublai’s favor. Hulagu, my troubled ward, grew up to induce both fear and admiration in many hearts. He established his kingdom in Persia and was well received by the inhabitants of the land who were too wise to confront the Mongols at the peak of their power.
It has been many years now that I have been cooped up in this palace that is also my jail. I live with a lie each day that I am a Mongol Royal, when in fact my true identity was stolen from me. What gives me solace and ebbs the intensity of my grief is the writing that I do. When I first began to write the chronicles, I took the horrific tales of the war front that Baako related to me, poor soul, and turned them into stories that sounded more like fiction than reality. But that reality is not lost on me, nor to the readers of these pages.
Dounia was troubled to find Reyhan one day in the hallway of her palace looking lost and dazed. She had known for a while that something was troubling her friend and companion. Dounia noticed how much Reyhan had aged since her journey to find Hulagu. She looked worn and withered. The woman who stood before Dounia was only a faded picture of the Reyhan she knew. She looked as if she felt the weight of the world upon her feeble shoulders. Her ashen face spoke not only of her old age but of her ill health. Reyhan’s hair had grown long and gray, her face long depleted of the cheerful pink that signifies a youthful complexion. Even her honey-colored eyes had lost their luster and no longer looked vibrant. Dounia feared that she would lose her. Maybe she already had.
“Come have some tea with me,” she said, but Reyhan refused, complaining that she was too tired. Her constitution appeared weak, yet she stood erect and proud like a condemned prisoner insisting on her innocence.
“There is something I need to tell you, Dounia. I may not be around much longer,” Reyhan said.
Dounia held out her hand. Reluctant at first, Reyhan took it, and instantly her expression changed. Color rose in her cheeks in a feverish way as she was led to a seat.
“I fear that my death is imminent, Dounia. My soul can no longer bear it,” she choked on her words and bit her lips to stop herself from crying.
“Oh Reyhan, do not speak of death. With Hulagu gone, I cannot live life without you.”
“The manuscript will become your refuge, your companion in your darkest days,” Reyhan said. “You will pour your heart onto its pages, and like an old friend, it will listen to you. The book will be your means of communicating with those who will come long after you have parted with this world. So, do consider it a means of reaching out to those who would understand.”
Dounia knelt beside her, but Reyhan insisted that she sit by her side, for she could harm the baby she was carrying. Tears filled Dounia’s eyes as she tried to contradict Reyhan, to give her hope, to revive her. But she knew it would be of no use.
As Reyhan closed her eyes, she felt the most intense pain she had ever felt in her life. But it soon washed over her like a wave, and she found herself in the bathhouse of Samarkand as a bride being readied for a bath. The pool had no water, however, it was filled with rose petals instead, and she began to float above it as petals in the palest color of pink fell upon her weightless body like soft rain.
One could say Reyhan embraced death. Her life had been suspended between the moment that she was kidnapped by Ogodei till the time that she learned to live again in a world beyond the reach of the Mongols.
Her tomb was never visited by future generations, her presence never acknowledged by history, but she left her mark upon it anyway.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Sprouting Seedling
It was a rainless, sunless, cloudy day in June or July. Dounia did not know which. Lazily she opened her window and yawned. Baby leaves of pale green from the early days of spring had by now matured and grown dark. The air felt hazy and misty as if the earth had enjoyed the pleasures of a hookah and blown its smoke all over the treetops.
During summer, Mongol women busied themselves with chores that had to be accomplished before the onset of winter. Felt fabrics had to get washed and readied. Warm clothing had to be shaken out of their summer slumber and packed away; boots had to be polished. Everyone seemed occupied except Dounia who had no choice but to sit idly by watching her chambermaids run around the palace.
Being in her last month of pregnancy and too heavy for any activity, even walking, she spent her days embroidering a scene of a mother and child on canvas. The project was going forward slowly, and she wondered if she would ever finish. Inexperienced in motherhood, she could not even let her tired mind dwell on the prospect of an infant. It remained her only source of hope, though, and she wondered at times if it would be a boy just like Hulagu or a little girl.
Light reflected off the silver tray and the hot china pot that Shura had placed on a nearby table. The pot had a floral design, and a row of little roses in hues of amber and white covered its red porcelain face. It was too beautiful to be used as a contraption for holding scalding hot water. Dounia picked up a glass teacup and stared at its shiny surface which mimicked the colors of the pot. The white leaves drawn on it became more pronounced and as she poured into it, the tea brewed to a deep maroon color.
She wondered what type of brew fate prepared for her on that day. She felt melancholy in every hour now that Reyhan had left this world. Dounia hoped her friend would find freedom from bondage in the next. With Hulagu gone, Dounia had lost her only attachment to the Mongol way of life, save for the child she bore. The idea of returning to Europe had turned into an elusive dream. Years after her abduction from that continent and forbidden from maintaining contact with anyone there, she had no idea if her return to her homeland would ever be possible, or if given such an opportunity she would not be devastated to learn that the remaining members of her family had also perished.
The only thing keeping her feet on the ground and her mind somewhat at ease was the responsibility of rearing the child of Hulagu who could very well become the next Khagan or a Mongol Queen. The idea both thrilled and overwhelmed her. Without Reyhan’s motherly advice, she only had Shura’s congenial companionship to look forward to at the end of each day, and that, only after the latter was done with her daily chores. She would ask Shura to tell her tales from Kievan Rus. Heartwarming stories of bogatyrs or Rus knights who served in the court of Vladimir I of Kiev and sweet narratives of a faraway land that were not unlike the stories from her own place of birth.
She reached for the pot to pour herself more tea, but a sharp pain in her abdomen stopped her. Its time she cried out, and at that very moment, Shura who happened to have forgotten to take away the used sheets returned to her chamber.
“My Dear, oh . . . have no fear . . . I will get help . . . just wait . . . you just,” she said before running down the stairs as fast as she could to reach the other chambermaids and call for help.
Soon Dounia was carried to a special ger by three Mongol women assigned to the task, where a Chinese physician stood ready to help her with the delivery. The scene appeared to be too much for poor Shura, who went outside where she could not hear the painful cries of the lonely mother. Shura had told Dounia that she had never known motherhood and the sensations associated with it. But she understood how mothers suffered through childbirth and beyond.
It was late at night when an eerie silence replaced Dounia’s constant and heart-wrenching cries. Shura ran toward the ger, only to find the physician’s sad face as he h
eld out the body of a stillborn male child.
Empty words, lifeless stares, and faded smiles greeted Dounia, but none could soothe the burning pain of her loss; a loss that left a gaping hole within her soul, never to be filled again. The child of their love, the fruit of their passion, the proof of her devotion to a husband lost, was no more.
Dounia remained inconsolable. She stared at the colorful silk threads of her embroidery and found a depressing sight in what used to be a gratifying object to behold. Reyhan’s death, right after Hulagu’s demise was a blow Dounia could barely sustain. The child had become the only thing that kept her clinging to life. With the baby being stillborn, that connection was cut.
The redundancy of life at Karakorum had worn her down. Without Reyhan or Sorkhokhtani being there to look after her or supervise the servants, they had slowly become negligent in preparing her food and catering to her needs. The deep down disdain the Mongols had for Dounia soon became overt. Any respect they had previously displayed because of her marriage to Hulagu, their hero, began to wane. Without him, they started to show disregard and sometimes outright negligence. They treated her as a former queen, an appendage to the royalty. If she had given birth to a healthy child, things would have been different. She would have been the mother of the next heir to the throne, but now she had lost her place in the Mongol society.
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