Everything Under the Heavens (Silk and Song)

This one is for
Barbara Peters,
who always believed.

There was no attempt to force my medieval characters to, in Josephine Tey’s inimitable phrase, ‘speak forsoothly.’ When people spoke in 1320, they sounded as contemporary to each other as you and I do when we speak to each other today. I chose to offend neither the reader’s eye nor my own-oh-so-delicate writer’s sensibilities with any
zounds!
-ing.

Agalia
. Jaufre’s mother. Sold into slavery as “the Lycian Lotus.”

Anwar the Egyptian
. Slave dealer in Kashgar.

Basil the Frank
. Wu Li’s agent in Baghdad.

Bo He
. Dai Fang’s doorman.

Chi Yuan
. Powerful Mandarin at the court of the Great Khan. Dai Yu’s uncle.

Chiang
. Edyk the Portuguese’s manservant.

Dai Fang
. Wu Li’s second wife. Johanna’s step-mother. Gokudo’s lover.

Dayir
. Aide to Bayan. Ogodei’s father.

Deshi the Scout
. Caravanmaster to Wu Li. Teaches Jaufre and Johanna soft boxing.

Edyk the Portuguese
. Trader residing in Cambaluc.

Eneas
. Wu Li’s agent in Alexandria.

Fatima
. Daughter of Malala and Ahmed, betrothed of Azar.

Félicien
. A Frank from Dijon. Goliard, or student traveling the world. Has studied liberal arts in Paris and medicine in Salerno.

Firas
. Nazari Ismaili from Alamut, the hereditary home of the Hashishin, or Assassins.

Fakhir
. Wu Li’s agent in Antioch.

Farhad bin Mohammed
. Son of Sheik Mohammed of Talikan.

Gokudo
. Samurai, expert in naginata (spear). Family killed and exiled from Cipangu in 1192. Dai Fang’s lover and hatchet man.

Grigori
. Wu Li’s agent in Kabul.

Hari
. Itinerant preacher, self-styled priest. “Sees” his destiny as to seek out new life and new religions.

Hasan
. Wu Li’s agent in Tabriz.

Jaufre
. Orphaned on the Silk Road, rescued by Johanna’s family, brought up as her brother, personal guard.

Johanna
. Trader, singer, adventurer, thief. Daughter of Wu Li and Shu Ming, granddaughter of Marco Polo and Shu Lin.

Madhar
. Wu Li’s agent in Calicut.

Mangu
. Cook in Wu Li’s caravan.

Niu Gang
. Wu Li’s factotum.

Ogodei
. Dayir’s son, friend to Wu Li. A captain of the ten thousand risen to one of the twelve barons of the Shiang.

Sheik Mohammed bin Assad of Talikan
. Father of Farhad.

Shu Lin
. Shu Ming’s mother, Marco Polo’s concubine, the Khan’s concubine and gift to Marco Polo, Johanna’s grandmother.

Shu Ming
. Johanna’s mother, Wu Li’s wife, Shu Lin’s daughter, Marco Polo’s daughter. Shu Shao’s adopted elder sister.

Shu Shao
. Also called “Shasha.” Shu Ming’s adopted younger sister. Nurse, friend, healer, wise woman.

Wu Cheng
. Wu Li’s brother. A eunuch, gelded by his parents for advancement at court. Fell out of favor when the old Khan died and, with the help of his brother, went into business as a trader on the Road.

Wu Hai
. Marco’s friend and Wu Li’s father.

Wu Li
. Johanna’s father. Shu Ming’s husband, and later Dai Fang’s husband.

HE WAS KEPT WAITING
not even an hour. As a mark of special favor, not lost on the others waiting on their own audiences in the cramped anteroom, Bayan’s own personal aide came to escort him into the general’s presence. They had travelled the Road together half a dozen times and Marco knew him well.

“Dayir!” They gripped each other’s arms. “What’s this I hear? A father, no less, and of a hearty son! Congratulations!”

Dayir, a short, muscular man near Marco’s own age, had a wide, engaging grin. He gave his head a rueful shake. “Hearty is the word, I fear. He has a temper. My wife says he has his nurse terrorized.”

Marco laughed. “He is a warrior already. What have you named him?”

“Ogodei.”

“A good name, a strong name for the strong man to be.”

“From your lips to the ears of all the gods, my friend.”

Dayir opened a door and waved him forward, and Marco heard the door close gently behind him.

Bayan of the Hundred Eyes received him with courtesy and without ceremony, in a small, luxuriously appointed study. An exquisitely worked carpet in shades of red and gold covered the floor. Rolled maps, books and scrolls were slotted into shelves that reached the ceiling. A sliding door made of translucent rice paper was painted with bold bursts of golden chrysanthemums, and stood open to allow the intoxicating scent of the plum tree blossoms to drift inside.

“Hah, my Latin friend,” Bayan said, rising from behind the lacquered table and reaching to pull Marco into a hearty embrace. “It has been too long.”

“It has,” Marco said, smiling. It was impossible to dislike Bayan when he greeted you so warmly and with such obvious good will.

“Sit, sit,” Bayan said, waving him to a pillow-strewn couch. Tea and a tray of delicacies were brought by a female servant who teetered away again on bound feet. Kublai Khan’s favorite general poured and served it himself. “Now, my Latin friend, tell me all about your recent journey on behalf of our most heavenly master. Where have you been? What have you seen?”

It was never the way of the East to come directly to the point, and it was only good manners that Marco pay for the privilege of this audience, so he obliged, over the next hour giving Bayan a vivid and detailed description of his journey to Cambay. Bayan listened with attention, asking many questions, and more than once rising to pull down a map from one of the shelves so Marco could trace out his route. Terrain, distance between stops, and the condition of the roads were Bayan’s chief interests, after the amount and experience of armed troops, but Marco was also closely questioned as to the customs of local cultures, the goods for sale, and the beauty of the women in every region. It was a Cambaluc joke that Bayan’s other nickname was Bayan of the Hundred Wives.

At last the general sat back and clapped his hands to order more tea. Again, he sent away the servant who brought it and poured it out with his own hands. “And you had no trouble along the way?” he said, offering Marco his cup.

“None. Oh, there was the usual pilfering, but no more than you might expect. We heard rumors of bandits in the hills outside of Bengal, and we saw one village that we were told was destroyed by them, but we never saw any ourselves.” He smiled. “Carrying the Khan’s paiza must be a guarantor of safe passage through the very bowels of hell itself, I think.”

“How could it be otherwise?” Bayan said simply.

The eyes of the two men met. There was a long silence which Marco was determined not to break.

Bayan sighed. “I have spoken with our heavenly master, the Khan. He has said you may escort the Princess Kokachin to the court of King Arghun.” A tart note entered into his voice. “He says it is to be hoped that you will succeed where those three nitwits of Arghun’s failed.”

Marco tried to conceal the leaping of his heart beneath a judicious expression. “To be fair, they couldn’t know their chosen route home would lead through a civil war. It was simply bad luck.”

“You make your own luck,” Bayan said, who had certainly made enough of his own to be an authority. “At any rate, you, your father and your uncle will together be named the guardians of the Princess Kokachin. Your job is to deliver her safely to her bridegroom in the Levant.”

“As always it is our very great joy to obey the wishes of the Son of Heaven,” Marco said.

The promptness of this reply earned him a raised eyebrow. “As you say,” Bayan said. “Your expedition will also be accompanied by delegations to the Pope in Rome, and to the kings of France, Spain, and England. You will be entrusted with messages to other leaders of Christendom as well.”

“Expedition?” Marco said. “How large is this caravan going to be?”

“You will not be going overland, you will be going by sea,” Bayan said, “in fourteen ships. The expedition is even now being assembled in Kinsai.” He smiled to see Marco for once at such a loss for words. It didn’t happen often.

“I am—humbled, as will be my father and my uncle, by the Great Khan’s trust in us to lead such a grand mission.” Marco knew a flood of happiness that at long last he would be going home, equalled only by the surge of satisfaction that it would be in such style. “When do we leave?”

“The court astrologers have decreed the last of the spring tides will be the most propitious day for your departure.”

Marco cast an involuntary glance through the open door, where the garden was in full bloom.

“Yes, I know, my friend, we have left your departure a little late.” Bayan leaned forward, a grave expression on his face, and dropped his voice to that barely above a whisper. “Within these four walls,” he said, “I will tell you, my friend, that I do not know how much longer the Khan will live. His illness has progressed to where he rarely leaves his chambers. Very few are admitted into his presence.” Bayan grimaced. “You’ll know how bad it must be when I tell you that Chi Yuan sent for me, of all people, to visit our master the Great Khan in hopes I would ease his depression. A bit ironic, when we both know that Chi Yuan will be first in line with a dagger aimed at my heart when our master the Great Khan breathes his last.”

Marco was silent. The struggle for power between the Mandarins and the Muslims at the court of Cambaluc was legendary. If Chi Yuan, a Mandarin and a jealous guard of the Great Khan’s private life, had sent for Bayan of the Hundred Eyes, a Muslim, to relieve the Great Khan’s spirits, they must be low indeed.

“He is leaving this life,” Bayan said, his expression somber, “and he knows it. While he lives, you are safe here in Everything Under the Heavens. When he dies…”

The two men sat together in silence.

It was nothing Marco had not known before he had requested this audience. Many times over the past several years, ever since the Khan’s health had begun to fail, the Polos had petitioned to leave the court and return home to Venice. Each time they had been refused, partly because the Great Khan feared what the loss of such effective tools would do to his own power and prestige, and partly because he was truly fond of them.