by Megan Bannen
What choice do I have? I ask him. What choice did you leave me?
My father’s judgment, even in death, tastes bitter in my mouth.
The khan places both his scarred hands on the table as I point the steaming water from the pot and send it splashing messily over the crumbled tea. “I have sent for Khalaf so that we may all discuss a matter of the utmost importance to the future of the Kipchak Khanate,” he says, “a matter that threatens to destroy us.”
That gets everyone’s attention, even the slaves’, and we’re not supposed to pay attention to anything. I raise my head to listen and wind up overfilling the cup, the water spilling over the sides like a fountain. I pour off the excess, burning my fingers in the process.
“I’ve had an emissary from Hulegu Il-Khan,” Timur tells his sons. “The il-khan has sacked Baghdad and is demanding a tribute of eight hundred thousand dirhams from us.”
Prince Miran lets out a breath, and Prince Khalaf nods grimly.
Frankly, I find Mongol politics bewildering. The Song Empire had an elegant bureaucracy with the emperor unequivocally at its head. The Mongol Empire, on the other hand, is an incomprehensible mishmash of khans and governors and random nobles who war against one another while the Great Khan oversees his own khanate in the east. The only thing I know about Hulegu Il-Khan is that he was sent by the Great Khan to recapture parts of Persia that had stopped paying their tribute to the empire.
“Eight hundred thousand dirhams? How much is that?” Prince Jahangir asks.
“Based on the exchange rate to the standardized sukhe, that’s about one thousand six hundred silver ingots,” says Prince Khalaf.
“And Khalaf should know”—Prince Miran sulks into his cup—“since he was the one who created the monetary standard for all the currencies of the empire when he was only twelve years old.”
“I was fourteen,” Prince Khalaf says quietly. “And the Great Khan’s finance ministers simply adopted the Kipchak standard for the rest of the empire. That’s all.”
Brilliant, I think as I whip the prince’s tea with grim determination. The concoction looks even more sickly than usual, as if I’ve managed to stir my fear and resentment into it along with everything else.
“And how do you think we should respond to the il-khan?” Timur Khan asks.
“I think we—” Prince Miran begins.
“I am asking Khalaf.”
The room goes still, palpably so, like someone blew out all the lamps at once. Even I notice the change in mood, and that’s saying something given my current focus.
“What? Khalaf?” Prince Jahangir seethes while Prince Miran bites his lip with infuriated impotence. “You’re giving precedence to the Beardless Wonder? You can’t be serious, Father.”
“He’s been tested in two battles,” Timur Khan points out. “He’s proven himself.”
“Minor skirmishes,” Prince Miran protests. “And the boy has spent most of the past five years learning the Eternal Blue Sky knows what in Isfahan.”
Timur Khan waves away his older sons’ comments while Prince Khalaf stares back at him in silence.
The tea is as ready as it’s going to get. I stare at it for a long moment before I will my feet to move and my hands to remain steady and unshaking as I set the cup in front of the prince. His quiet, even presence radiates off him as I lean in, and I wish for the millionth time in the eighteen hours since I met him that he were not quite so wonderful.
Timur Khan asks simply, “Prince Khalaf?”
I step back, melting into line with the other slaves, but I feel as though I left my stomach on the table beside the prince’s hand. Prince Khalaf remains quiet and watches the steam billowing out of his cup.
“My lord,” says Prince Jahangir, nearly choking on his anger as he reaches for a bit of lamb. “Khalaf is a child and he’s flowery and he’s up to his ass in books. How is that good for anything?”
“There is as much to be learned about war from books as there is on the field of battle,” Prince Khalaf says at last. “Frankly, I prefer books. So if you’d rather I didn’t share my opinions on the matter at hand, I’ll happily return to my studies.”
The boy rises from his divan as if to leave, and for one dizzying moment I am both panicked and relieved.
“Sit,” Timur barks at him. “I called you here for your learned opinion, and I will have it.”
“You know I don’t relish matters of state, Father.”
The khan leans forward. “Then it’s too damn bad that you were born a prince.”
Prince Jahangir gives an ugly laugh as Prince Miran takes another drink. After a moment, Prince Khalaf releases a breath and sits obediently. “I’m assuming we can’t afford to pay off the il-khan?” he asks.
“We can’t afford to pay tribute to the Great Khan and Hulegu, no,” Timur Khan confirms. He scratches at his beard and mutters, “Frankly, I’d like to signal our absolute refusal of the il-khan’s temerity by gutting his emissary and sending the little prick back to his master wrapped in his own shit-filled entrails.”
Jahangir cheers, “Hear, hear!” and Prince Miran sneers at him. I’ve been watching the pair of them for the past two months trying to figure out which one could be considered smart enough to rule the Kipchak Khanate. Seeing them now, side by side with their brother, there’s no contest. Miran’s lack of grace and Ja-hangir’s oafishness become ridiculous beside Prince Khalaf’s quiet intelligence. This boy is clearly the rightful heir to the Kipchak Khanate, a fact that twists up my insides, like someone is playing jump rope with my intestines while I watch.
“I have not finished.” Timur Khan scowls at his older sons. “I would love nothing more than to throw down the gauntlet, but the il-khan has the Great Khan’s support, and his army outnumbers our own by a hefty margin.”
“He has two hundred thousand men,” Prince Khalaf adds, curling his fingers around the cup. I suck in a sharp breath of air that saws into my chest. “And Baghdad is the epicenter of Muslim culture: art, scholarship, libraries. As a Muslim convert, Father may be obligated to avenge this act.”
“So what do you propose we do, O Great Scholar Khalaf?” scoffs Prince Jahangir as his older brother taps his cup for another refill of qumiz.
“Excellent question,” says Timur Khan. “What do you propose, Prince Khalaf?”
The young prince regards the gems and pearls of a support beam as they reflect the flickering firelight. His hand still hugs the cup, and I can’t help but notice that even the shape of his hand on the cup is lovely. It’s the same hand that held out an offering of kindness to a slave, a nobody. Me. His soft voice presses against my conscience. “God does not judge you according to your appearance and your wealth, but He looks at your heart and looks into your deeds.”
Prince Khalaf replies softly, “We declare war.”
“Hark the genius child,” Prince Miran slurs.
Prince Jahangir crosses his arms over his chest. “We should have tried to arrange a marriage between the Great Khan’s chit and one of us. I said so all along. The il-khan wouldn’t have dared strike at us if we were so strongly tied to the Great Khan.”
Even this small reference to Turandokht makes my resentment of my current circumstances rise biliously up the back of my throat.
“Khalaf,” says the khan, “please explain to your brother why that plan is fucking idiotic.”
“It’s not idiotic,” the boy sighs, finally betraying a hint of frustration with his family.
“You’re right. I said it was fucking idiotic. Now tell him why.”
Prince Khalaf traces the rim of his cup with his finger. “Because many in the empire believe Father holds a stronger claim to the throne than the Great Khan does. So it’s highly unlikely that the Great Khan would wish to marry his only daughter to one of us since that would invite our family to take over the empire. Besides, the competition over her hand in and of itself could lead to war with another nation—has led to war, in fact. Look at what happened to the Son
g. They’re dead and gone now.”
The reminder of all that I’ve lost, spoken so casually, stings like a wasp. I’m the only person in the room who truly comprehends what happened to the Song Dynasty, but unlike Prince Jahangir, I’m not at liberty to explode in a rage.
“So we recruit heavily from the kingdoms and tribes of the Kipchak Khanate, and we fight off Hulegu Il-Khan and his milk-blooded army?” the khan asks his youngest son.
Prince Khalaf lifts his cup at last. “I can’t refer to an army of two hundred thousand men as ‘milk-blooded,’ but I see no other way, my lord.”
I imagine the way the porcelain feels in his grasp, the heat seeping into his skin. I can’t tear my eyes away.
Look at what happened to the Song, he said. I try to cling to the words and the hate they inspire, but my mind fills instead with his smile, his outstretched hand, the guilelessness streaming off him. Try as I may, I can’t bring myself to hate him.
“Are we agreed?” Timur Khan asks.
Prince Jahangir sighs and nods. Prince Miran grunts, “Fine.”
“Then it sounds like we have a plan, gentlemen,” the khan declares, pushing back from the table and templing his thick fingers.
The Kipchaks are going to war. And men die in war.
Dammit. Just, dammit.
When Prince Miran taps his cup again, I grab the carafe from the slave beside me to pour qumiz for him. The royal family takes no notice, but I can feel the other slaves staring at my back with a mixture of awe and horror. I bump hard against Prince Khalaf as I pass him, knocking into his arm and sending his tea splashing to the table and floor and all over the sleeve of his plain wool deel.
4
OVER THE FOLLOWING WEEKS, THE CITY of white gers grows and spreads into a far-reaching grid across the landscape, dotted with herds upon herds of the stocky mares favored by the Mongols. When the day finally comes for the Kipchak army to depart, most of the women and children of Sarai come to see them off, myself included.
I watch Prince Khalaf ride among his men, the sun glinting off his conical helmet. The quiver of arrows at his horse’s flank points upward to the Mongols’ Eternal Blue Sky, although he prays to a different god from most of his tribesmen.
Is he praying for his life now? I wonder as I watch him ride away.
For two months, I try and fail to resign myself to my lot in life. For two months, I try and fail to appease my brother’s troubled ghost. For two months, I try and fail to scrub the memory of Prince Khalaf out of my mind the way I scour burned meat from the bottom of a pot.
Emphasis on the word “fail.”
My brother haunts my dreams at night, while the memory of the prince’s kindness invades my waking thoughts until, nine weeks after the Kipchak army leaves, I wake with a terrified lurch to the sound of hooves pounding into the encampment. Shouts cut through the night air. I race alongside the other slaves to the grazing pasture of the imperial ger just in time to see Prince Khalaf swinging down off his mount.
Prince Khalaf, back from the war with Il-Khanids.
Prince Khalaf, who is not dead.
His lip is swollen, and there’s dried blood on his face from a gash through his left eyebrow, but he’s very much alive. I’m more elated than devastated to see him still in the world, and I berate myself for both emotions.
Timur Khan strides out of his ger wearing a quilted deel hastily tied around his waist, and the men go quiet.
“What’s this?” the khan asks.
The prince removes his helmet and tucks it under his arm. “Father, we’ve come from—”
“Are we victorious?”
“No, Father, we—”
“Then why are you here?” the khan demands.
“I’m trying to tell you—”
“You just told me that we are not victorious. That means you should be either fighting to the death at this moment or dead. So let me ask you again, why in the name of God and the Eternal Blue Sky are you here?”
The khan’s voice grows in anger until the last word cracks like a whip. Everything stops. Slaves and nobility are standing side by side with the city of gers at our backs, all of us silent, all of us watching and waiting. It begins to sleet.
Prince Khalaf opens his mouth to answer but promptly shuts it again. For a moment, I think he might start crying. He gazes back at his father with wet eyes and doesn’t utter a sound until he’s regained his composure. “May I speak now, my lord?”
When Timur Khan’s only response is a flinty glare, the prince continues. “We woke one morning to find that many of our allies had accepted a bribe from Hulegu Il-Khan and had fled in the night. We were left with thirty thousand fewer men, and we were already outnumbered to begin with.”
He pauses, but his father says nothing.
“It was a slaughter. I ordered my unit to cut through enemy lines so that we might make it back to Sarai in time to warn our people and to get you out of the city before the il-khan and his forces arrive.” He gestures to the six men behind him and announces hoarsely, “This is all that remains of your army.”
Nothing but sleet hitting mud greets this news. The silence is staggering, as if the world were holding its breath. The entire Kipchak army has been obliterated, and one of the only men left standing is Prince Khalaf. I’m not sure whether to laugh or weep.
“You left the field of battle?” the khan asks his son.
“Yes.”
Without warning, the old man backhands the boy across the face, splitting the prince’s lip and nearly knocking him to the ground. I gasp and take a couple of steps forward, but what can I do to help? Nothing. I’m nothing. And I shouldn’t want to help the boy in the first place.
Prince Khalaf staggers, rights himself, and stands erect before his father. “You would prefer me dead, my lord?” he asks.
I cringe at the old man’s silence. A father’s disapproval can cut like a knife.
“I suppose we could have fought to the death,” the prince says, “but it would have made no difference to the battle, none whatsoever. And I thought the Kipchaks might prefer to be warned so that they could flee before Hulegu Il-Khan’s forces come to burn their homes and rape their women. Even now, the Il-Khanids are hot on our heels. The only reason we were able to move so quickly to get here is because we are so few.”
My mind reels, trying to grapple with the fact that my circumstances, which were already terrible, have just taken a dramatic turn for the worse. Timur Khan still says nothing.
“And I believed—I still believe, in fact—that I ought to do everything within my power to protect my khan,” the prince persists. “So, by your leave, I will ready my men to escort you into exile.”
Exile.
He’s leaving, and he’s going to carry away my hopes—my whole life—with him.
He turns away from his father and begins ordering the evacuation, wiping at his lip with the back of his hand. Blood shines on his skin, dark and slick in the torchlight.
“Miran? Jahangir?” Timur Khan shouts at his back. “Where are my sons?”
Prince Khalaf stops. He turns his head to the side, revealing a profile shining with rain. He shakes his head before he walks on, the mud sucking at his boots.
Sarai bursts into a frenzy of escape, spreading so quickly through the gers that within minutes, the only people left standing in the pasture are myself and Timur Khan, both of us glazed over and inert.
What am I going to do? I have no idea where to go from here. Think, Jinghua, I beg myself. Think!
I drift aimlessly between the gers, where the slaves are stealing what they can before they run. For a moment I’m tempted to escape, too, an idea so visceral I can taste it like honey on my tongue. But where would I go? Home? I may as well walk to the moon.
My mind is divided in two: the enormous chunk that is blind with panic and a tiny corner that is still functioning. That tiny corner reminds me that I cannot stay in Sarai, where I have no friends and no one to help me, that I am roughly
sixteen thousand lĭ away from my home in Lin’an. It directs me to follow Prince Khalaf, my one and only ticket to freedom, at any price. It whispers seductively that if I follow him, there’s still a possibility, however slim, that I could make my way home. My panic asserts that a girl traveling with a band of Kipchaks is begging for trouble, but my logic tells me that maybe, just maybe, I could pass for a boy.
The functioning portion of my mind grows, flexes a muscle, moves aside the panic. I enter the slaves’ ger, cast off my deel, and tie a thick strip of muslin around what passes for my breasts. The shapelessness of the quilted, heavily lined boy’s deel I put on over my trousers hides what little femininity I had to begin with. The original owner of these clothes was probably a good two years younger than I am, but I’m drowning in fabric.
What are you doing? This will never work! my shrinking panic says in one last death gasp, but there’s a certain freedom that comes from having nothing to lose. Steady now, I pack two changes of clothing and an extra pair of shoes inside a blanket that I tie to my back. I braid my hair into two loops, one on each side of my head in the style of Mongol boys, before I head back to the pasture.
I find Prince Khalaf at the center of all the noise and activity with two other men, tying supplies to their horses. I hover near him, wringing my hands, unsure of what I’m going to do or say and still worried to death that he’ll recognize me as the apple-stealing thief I am. Finally, he notices the idiot whinging behind him.
“Yes? What is it?” He sounds more weary than snappish. I don’t think he has any idea who I am.
“I’m here to serve you, my lord,” I tell him, or more precisely, I tell my feet.
He pauses in his work. “You’re a slave?”
We’ve had this conversation before, but he doesn’t remember. “Yes,” I tell him.
“Can you cook?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Can you shoot?”
“Yes,” I lie.
“Can you ride a horse?”
I look up at him, trying to decide how to answer. The sleet has tapered to a freezing drizzle, and he wipes the condensation from his tired face.
