After a moment Zhu said, “You know what else no one knows?”
“What?”
His eyes smiled at her. Ordinary eyes in an unhandsome face; it was strange how they captured her. He said, “That you’re smarter than all of them put together. You’re right. I did come.”
Hearing that preposterous statement from his mouth, having it proved real, was more disconcerting than validating. “But why the Red Turbans? If you wanted to lead, you could have easily become a bandit like your monk friend. Why take the one in a million chance of success at Lu?”
“What are bandits but rabble?” he said softly. “Why would I want to be their leader?”
Looking at him through the dimness, Ma felt a chill. “Then what do you want?”
She couldn’t understand how someone could want anything so much that he would face the impossible for it. It wasn’t that he thought himself infallible, she thought. That would take stupidity, and for all he pretended naïveté, he wasn’t stupid. It was almost as if his desire were so fundamental to him that the thought of letting it go was more dreadful than any risk to pursue it. Ma found it unsettling. If your desire was the most important thing in the world, what wouldn’t you do to achieve it?
He was silent. She thought he might not answer, but then he said simply, “My fate.”
She hadn’t expected that. She frowned. “What’s the point of wanting your fate? It’ll happen whether you want it to or not.”
His gaze had gone to the wooden statue at the back of the temple. Seen in profile, the contour of his cheekbone gleamed in the imperfect dark, statue-like. But under the stillness there was a churn Ma couldn’t make sense of. Doubt? It made no more sense to doubt the inevitability of fate than it did to doubt the color of the sky. At length he said, “I don’t think you’ve ever really wanted, Ma Xiuying.”
The truth of that took her aback. But if everything in your life was as preordained as your fate, what point was there in wanting? Ma’s father had given her to the Guo family; she would marry Little Guo; she would bear his children; and one day she would give her daughters to other men. That was how it would go. It was the pattern of the world. She said rather sharply, “I thought monks teach that desire is the cause of all suffering.”
“It is,” he said. “But you know what’s worse than suffering? Not suffering, because you’re not even alive to feel it.” An incoming draft stirred the air, blurring the thin lines of incense smoke. His eyes flicked to her, and she startled. He sees me, she thought, and the peculiar intensity of it made her feel like she was being seen for the very first time. As if spilling some hard-won secret into the closeness between them, he said, low, “Learn to want something for yourself, Ma Xiuying. Not what someone says you should want. Not what you think you should want. Don’t go through life thinking only of duty. When all we have are these brief spans between our nonexistences, why not make the most of the life you’re living now? The price is worth it.”
She stared at him, the hairs on her arms prickling. For a moment she saw that long scroll of the world’s time, each of her lives no brighter or longer than a firefly’s flash in the darkness. She knew instinctively that he hadn’t been performing—it was something he believed. But in the same instant she saw that raw truth of him, she realized that that was all it was: something that was true for him. A man could want anything the world offered and still have a chance, no matter how small, of achieving it. For all he had acknowledged her as a being capable of desire, he hadn’t seen her reality: that she was a woman, trapped within the narrow confines of a woman’s life, and everything that could be wanted was all equally impossible.
She rose to leave. “Maybe your suffering is worth whatever it is you want to achieve,” she said bitterly. “But mine wouldn’t be.”
12
HICHETU, SHANXI, THIRD MONTH
The sight of Hichetu’s wide open plains, where the wind rolled the grass west in endless waves of green and yellow, never failed to bring a deep ancestral yearning into Esen’s heart. The Great Khan’s hunting camp, though, was to a steppe nomad camp as a city is to a village. Instead of felt, the gers were of finest woven lambswool; at their doors carpets were unrolled beneath flickering satin awnings. Roaming from carpet to carpet was everyone of note in the Great Yuan. Ministers and generals; Princes of the Blood and imperial princesses; provincial governors and hostage princes from the vassal states. And everywhere the thousands of servants, maids, chefs, doctors, guards, grooms, huntsmasters, priests, and entertainers required to tend their masters. The guests drank grape wine and airag, ate meat prepared in the exotic fashions of the western khanates, and used the finest Jingdezhen porcelain. Their horses and herds ate the grass down until it was as bare as a monk’s head, scattered all about with the jeweled gers glittering in the steady plateau sun.
In the center of them stood the Great Khan’s ger. Its immaculate white silk walls had been embroidered with such a density of gold thread that they crinkled as the wind blew. Inside, the Great Khan sat on a raised platform. Esen, prostrated on the carpet in a row with his father and brother, cried out with them, “Ten thousand years to the Great Khan, ten thousand years!”
The Great Khan, the tenth emperor of the Great Yuan, said, “Rise.”
Esen had fought his whole life for the abstract concept of Great Yuan. Now, being in the presence of its very embodiment, he was overcome with an intoxicating feeling of purpose. He sat up on his heels and dared take his first look at the Son of Heaven. The Great Khan wore a gown the color of a gold tael; dragons ghosted within like the clouds in a clear soup. His face was surprisingly ordinary: round and fleshy, with red cheeks and heavy eyelids. There was a lassitude in that face that surprised Esen and made him uneasy. Even though he had known better, some part of him had always believed the Great Khans were still warriors.
“We bestow our greetings upon the Prince of Henan,” the Great Khan said. “We hope your journey here was smooth, and that your family and herds remain in good health.”
“It has been a long year since this unworthy one last paid you his respects, Great Khan,” Chaghan replied. “We are grateful for the opportunity to enjoy your hospitality, before returning to executing your will against the rebels.”
The Great Khan’s gaze wandered over Baoxiang and landed on Esen. “We have heard much of the son of yours who leads your army. Had you brought him before, we would have gladly recognized him. Is this he?”
Esen’s body flooded with anticipation. He performed another prostration. “This unworthy servant pays his respects to the Great Khan. I am Esen-Temur, first son of the Prince of Henan. I would be honored to present my account of the situation against the rebels in the south.”
“Mmm,” said the Great Khan. As Esen rose from his prostration, his anticipation turned to confusion: the Great Khan had already lost interest. “The Grand Councilor will have received your reports.”
Esen had spent the last two days preparing for this encounter. He had braced himself for castigation, and hoped for at least some praise. He knew how critical his campaigns against the rebels were to the security of the Great Yuan. Now, blindsided by this most blatant disinterest, he said uncertainly, “… Great Khan?”
“Great Khan.” An official stepped from behind the throne. Unlike the Great Khan, whose bearing disappointed, the Grand Councilor spoke with all the composure and authority one expected from the supreme commander of the Yuan’s military. He regarded the three of them with an inscrutable expression. “Indeed I have been kept well informed about the accomplishments of the Prince of Henan’s forces. This past year has once again seen them achieve magnificent victories against the Great Yuan’s enemies in the south. A crushing defeat of the entire Red Turban movement is at hand. Great Khan, please reward them!”
The Grand Councilor’s elision of his defeat left Esen thankful and, at the same time, disturbed. It seemed an important matter to be glossed over. He didn’t like the idea that his successes and failures, so hard
-earned in the field, might be nothing more than weapons for the court’s internecine battles.
The Great Khan smiled vaguely down at Chaghan. “The Prince of Henan has always been the Great Yuan’s most loyal subject, and deserving of our highest praise,” he said. “He shall be rewarded. But now, Prince: go forth and eat and drink, and let me see your sons in competition tomorrow. It brings us pleasure to see the future of the Great Yuan out on the field.”
As they rose and backed away from the throne, Esen thought wretchedly of his shattered expectations for the meeting. The Great Khan was supposed to be the personification of the culture and empire that Esen cherished and made his life’s work to protect. To discover that the Great Khan was no more than a—
But he couldn’t even make himself even think it.
As they stepped outside, they collided with the next group of nobles waiting to give their greetings to the Great Khan.
“Why, Chaghan!” said Military Governor Bolud-Temur of Shanxi in a boisterous voice. “Good to see you looking well. I trust your family and herds are in fine health.” At his side, Altan bestowed upon them his customary look of pimply satisfaction. Unlike the rather austere Prince of Henan, the Military Governor of Shanxi was a man who took pleasure in excess. His ostentatiously embroidered riding costume, styled with a pleated skirt in the current fashion of the imperial court, was such a violent shade of aquamarine that Esen was surprised he hadn’t attracted every winged insect within five li. Already the father of the Empress, Bolud somehow managed to carry himself in the manner of someone expecting even higher imperial favors.
“I must say: what a surprise it was to receive your request for extra troops,” Bolud went on. “I wouldn’t have imagined such a defeat was even possible against those peasants. What do they even fight with, spades? Good thing you had me to bail you out, eh? Anyway, this must be your first son, Esen-Temur. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you here, Esen, I can’t help but think of you as still a boy. Well, I’m sure you’ve learned a lesson or two from recent events. If I had a general who lost ten thousand men in a single night, I’d have him wrapped in carpet and thrown in the river. Though I did run across him just before, and I see why you haven’t. By Heaven, he’s a pretty one! You should sell him as a woman and get three times the price as for a failed general—” He guffawed. “And here’s Wang Baoxiang! I couldn’t believe it when Altan told me you still aren’t leading a battalion. At your age! And every year you refuse to play here in the competitions. Surely it’s not because you can’t draw a bow, but—”
Archery was the Mongols’ birthright; there wasn’t a man or woman who could call themselves Mongol if they couldn’t draw a bow. As Bolud glanced pointedly at Baoxiang’s smooth hands, Esen found his blood boiling on his brother’s behalf. Not for the first time, he regretted their dependence upon Bolud.
Baoxiang said, far more politely than Esen expected, “Perhaps this year I’ll break my habit and play, Esteemed Military Governor. I’m sure it will please my father.”
“Well, good!” said Bolud heartily, as if he hadn’t insulted everyone present in nearly a single breath. “I look forward to your performance.”
Baoxiang bowed, but Esen saw his calculating eyes tracking the Shanxi nobles all the way into the Great Khan’s ger.
* * *
Much to Ouyang’s displeasure, the Great Khan’s competitions lasted from sunup to sundown of the lengthening spring days. Men—and even some women—contested in every feat of skill under the sun. Archery and horse racing, trick riding and goat pulling and cow-skin blowing, falconry and polo and knife throwing and every type of armed and unarmed combat from all the lands of the four khanates. Both he and Esen, who were accustomed to spending their energies on productive warfare, found it bizarre. In Hichetu it was the performances that were praised, not the outcomes; often a loser with a flashier style was feted.
“What did you expect, that merit is the basis for advancement in court?” Lord Wang had said acerbically when Esen pointed it out, and strolled away under his parasol with a drink in his hand.
Ouyang, standing in the middle of the competition field with the harsh plateau sun pounding on his helmet, thought that for once Lord Wang had the more enviable activity. At the field’s perimeter court nobles lounged in silk pavilions and laughingly laid bets, and were attended by flocks of servants bringing around all manner of snacks that were far too peculiar for Ouyang’s tastes: sweet and spicy dried squid cooked with almonds; rice-stuffed fried red dates in osmanthus syrup; salty yak-butter tea; baskets of alarming-looking tropical fruits from the far south. He felt sweaty and irritated. He had been competing in sword-fighting bouts all morning, and every single one of them had gone the same way. Opponents, assuming they were facing someone with the strength of a stripling boy (or worse: a girl), charged in and received their correction. Ouyang’s style was neither graceful nor artistic, which displeased the crowd. It was, however, extremely effective.
“General Zhang Shide of Yangzhou to contest the next match against General Ouyang of Henan!” a herald bellowed, and Ouyang’s next opponent came towards him across the grass. He saw a Nanren whose handsomeness seemed unrelated to his particular features, which were undistinguished. A square hairline and strong brow; the rest already careworn. But there was deeply felt emotion in the way the shadows fell beneath his eyes and around the corners of his mouth. A thousand future expressions waiting to form.
“But can this really be the first time we meet?” Ouyang asked, speaking Han’er. The Zhang family, whose mercantile empire controlled the coast and the Grand Canal that supplied Khanbaliq with its salt and grain, was of such importance to the Great Yuan that Ouyang had a long familiarity with General Zhang’s name and personality. It was odd to realize the knowledge had no basis in real connection.
For a bare instant General Zhang’s eyes flicked behind Ouyang in something like surprise, then the look was gone as he gave a warm smile of greeting. “It’s strange, isn’t it? This feeling that we already know each other. When I heard you would be here in Liulin”—he used the Han’er name for Hichetu—“I looked forward to this meeting as with an old friend.” He threw an ironic look at the audience. “Though I didn’t quite have these circumstances in mind.”
“Never underestimate Mongols’ taste for competition,” Ouyang said. “Give two men a piece of meat each, and they’ll compete to see who can finish first.”
“And do you share that taste?” Zhang said, with amusement.
Ouyang smiled slightly. “To be sure I don’t enjoy losing.”
“That’s hardly exclusive to Mongols. When the Emperor asked me to compete, do you know I felt it beneath my station? I considered throwing one of the matches, to be let off earlier. But unfortunately my pride refused to let me lose. So now here we both are. The mighty defenders of the Yuan, about to chase each other around at midday for the entertainment of the masses.”
They made their genuflections to the imperial pavilion and turned to face each other. Ouyang said, “Maybe it’s a good thing: if we only know a little of each other now, we’re sure to know each other very well afterwards.”
“We could have done the same over a nice meal.”
“By seeing who could finish first?”
Zhang laughed. “Ah, you have the name and face of one of us, but I see you really are a Mongol. Apart from a love of competitive meat eating, your accent in Han’er gives you away. Shall we?”
Although only of medium build, Zhang was larger than Ouyang and had the advantage of experience. In his first attack he revealed a style that was warm and passionate; it had all the sensitivity and artistry that Ouyang’s lacked. The crowd cheered, finally getting the show that Ouyang had denied them.
Parrying Ouyang’s counterattack, Zhang said, “Are you really that desperate to win and go up against the Third Prince?”
“The Third Prince?” The sole royal prince to have survived childhood, the Third Prince was the son of the Great Khan’s
favorite and most powerful concubine. Already nineteen, he still showed no sign of having come into the power of the Mandate of Heaven that was the requirement to be appointed crown prince. Since it was vanishingly rare for princes to acquire the Mandate in adulthood, most Mongol nobles believed that a more suitable prince would be born one day to inherit the Mandate and the throne.
“You didn’t pay attention to the other bouts? He’ll play the victor of this one, in the final. Though I have to say, his skills are what you’d expect of someone who’s never allowed to lose.”
“An easy victory, then,” Ouyang said, as they broke apart to regroup.
Zhang, who had lost the athleticism of his prime, was panting a little. “Maybe so, but surely the winner ought to be worried about his career. Do you care that much about the prizes?”
Ouyang’s future contained more to worry about than his career. Even now he was preternaturally conscious of the imperial pavilion beckoning to him like the edge of a cliff. He knew it wasn’t the right time to poke this particular wound. But for all that, he knew he still would.
Pretending lightness, he said, “Does that mean you’re giving up?”
“Not at all,” Zhang said, grinning. “I’m happy to step up against the Third Prince. No harm in him knowing my face. I’ll just throw the match when I’m there. Gracefully, of course. A young man likes to have his skills flattered.”
“A young man should know honestly how his skills compare to others,” Ouyang scoffed.
“Have you really made it so far in your career without the need for flattery?”
“With sufficient competence, there’s no need of flattery.” If only the whole world worked that way.
“Aiya, it’s a good thing you ended up in the military. You and I are simple men. Politics would be the end of us—” Just as he was finishing, Ouyang saw an opening in his defense and lunged, and sent the other general flying.
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