Chapter 3
Khanbalikh
Chapter 28th to 37th years of Toghon Temur
(Beijing, China 1358-67)
I stared after my traveling companions for a while as they disappeared among the throng along the road. Then with some misgivings, I dismounted and approached what appeared to be a horse shed next to the main house. I entered the shed, tethered the horse next to the two horses already there, and taking my pack, slowly walked up to the house. Not sure what to do, I opened the door and peered in. Seeing no one, I entered the house and looked all around the large airy room with glass windows, colorful wall coverings, and rugs. The walls and floor were made of polished wood, as were the benches I could see about the room. There were also doors that led to other rooms. This was nothing like a yurt! Curious though I was, I stopped staring about and moved toward the hammering sounds I knew so well from my father’s forge. The sound led me through the house and out another door into an enclosed backyard with trees, bushes and flowers, and in the center, a forge. At the forge lost in his work so much that he did not detect my approach was a white-haired replica of my father. Before I left the Ordu, my father assured me that I would have no trouble recognizing his father—he was right. I put my gear down and squatted down to watch just as I sometimes watched my father, and the sounds transported me home for a while, until my grandfather finally noticed me.
“Who might you be, child?” He peered at me as if he was trying to recognize me, “And how did you get in here?”
“I’m Karl,” I stammered, “and I came through the door there.” I pointed back to the door from which I had entered the garden.
“Karl?” My grandfather seemed puzzled. “What Karl? Should I know you?”
It was foolish of me to think the poor man would recognize a grandson he had only seen as a babe some eight years before, and, of course, no one warned him I was coming, since our family’s business hardly rated a dispatch rider. In fact, I carried with me my father’s announcement of my advent in a hastily scribbled note, which I thoughtfully produced from my pack at this strategic moment. The light was fading so my grandfather took the note near the forge to read. Finishing the note, he again studied me as if to see if there was any family resemblance to give credence to the note. Finally, he burst out laughing, a laud, raucous, infectious laughter, which I finally joined in, puzzled but relieved.
“So, you are Karl,” he chuckled. “I finally see it. You look just like your mother, although you smell like a Mongol from the old days—after a long campaign. Come, we’ll clean you up and then decide what to do with you.”
So it was that I came to live in Khanbalikh with my grandfather George. He was not a bit surprised at my not wanting to be a blacksmith, (after all I was named Karl, wasn’t I?) and was glad I didn’t want to simply be a soldier. He decided, and I agreed, that since I wanted to learn, he would see that I was taught. He also had some books that I could read, but more importantly, my maternal grandfather, Peter, a Nestorian priest, who was immersed in things of the Hanjen, could teach me to speak, read, and write in that language and perhaps also in his native Farsi. With these two languages along with Mongol under my belt, I could learn all there was to learn in Khanbalikh.
Grandfather Peter, a pale, short, and thin man with a long white beard, a large nose, and bright blue almost feverish eyes, bawled like a woman in mourning when he first saw me, because I reminded him of his daughter, my mother. Soon, he decided the resemblance was purely superficial, and he was scandalized by my “crude Mongol manners” which were all because my father had dragged his poor gentle baby girl off into the wilds to live as a barbarian. He also held my father responsible for her untimely death. When he wasn’t carrying on so, he did try to teach me Hanjen and Farsi over the next few years as my grandfather George had requested. Fortunately, I was allowed to live with Grandfather George and go to Grandfather Peter only for lessons. I was much more comfortable with the former as he was more easygoing—more of a Mongol than the latter. I was also subjected to both sides of a debate on the merits of Grandfather Peter’s religion. Grandfather George warned me not to clutter my brain with Grandfather Peter’s “religious puffery,” but to learn only the languages, so I could learn useful things. Grandfather Peter was incensed at my imperviousness to his religion and was certain that I would end up in an unpleasant place called hell, where I would no doubt find my grandfather George. Since I had grown quite fond of the latter, I wasn’t too concerned by the prospect. Grandfather Peter also tried to introduce me to Hanjen “culture.” He would first read to me, then help me read his Hanjen books (implausible accounts of old heroes overcoming devils, dragons, and other insurmountable obstacles), and he would haul me to what proved to be completely incomprehensible formal entertainments, which he greatly enjoyed. These latter consisted of skits and rather tedious songs—long and in one key. I hated these and didn’t really like his poetry and tales either, but I very much enjoyed the less literary works. These were compendiums of history, medicine, science, warfare, geography, and technology. I devoured all such that he had and was allowed to read some owned by his friends since I always treated the books with proper reverence. He never could understand my interests, but was pleased that I had impressed his friends with my questions. He would also take me far out of our way all over the sprawling city of Tatu (as he and most of the Hanjen insisted on calling Khanbalikh) to show me some painting or piece of crockery he greatly admired. The former tended to be landscapes and somewhat nice, but no match for the real thing—not nearly enough color. The latter were quite attractive, bright blues, yellows, reds, and greens with imaginative decorations like dragons, flowers and animals on them, but the porcelain was thin and fragile, not very practical for the Ordu. He did not cry when Grandfather George decided it was time I had a new teacher.
My next teacher was Ibrahim, a chemist and a Muslim, fortunately in that order. A tall, thin, quiet man with a sallow complexion, a large hooked nose, small hazel eyes topped by bushy black eyebrows and a long, rather unkempt black beard. He always wore a turban, even indoors, and he was rather stoop shouldered. He taught me what he knew about the elements of the earth, where they could be found and isolated and how they could be used. He also tried to teach me his religion, but he wasn’t as pushy about it as Grandfather Peter had been and didn’t appear to be offended by my intransigence. Again, I still lived with Grandfather George and each day we went over whatever I had learned. He always encouraged me to question until I fully understood and was very supportive. After two years with Ibrahim, I knew where and how to find all metal-bearing ores and how to smelt the metal free from the slag. I could make the various strengths of gunpowder and poison and smoke bombs, knew how and when to use acids and various salts, and could recognize many gases by their smell. I could detect many poisons and salts by simple tests and could distill petroleum and alcohol. He only showed me the last skill, because, like him, I didn’t drink alcohol. One could make a very potent drink called strong beer by distilling ordinary beer. I can imagine what could be done with kumis!
My next teacher was Kuang Tung, a Hanjen engineer. He was a short, rather portly Han, with intense dark eyes, a thin wispy beard, and a broad mouth usually smiling with enthusiasm. He explained to me the various ingenious inventions the Hanjen had developed over the centuries to make their lives more comfortable or their wars more successful. Some of the former were clever but impractical in the Ordu, but the mechanics were interesting, and I paid close attention. The war machinery was quite intriguing, especially if one was to engage in siege warfare, either offensively or defensively, which seemed to be the main application. It was the development of a very strong brass that was 70 percent copper, which enabled such creations as the “flying fire machine.” This weapon had a clever double acting piston bellows enabling it to deliver a continuous directed flow of fire. The fire came by holding a lighted fuse in front of the nozzle while pumping out the lighter petroleum distillates. He also showed me the designs for various sizes of cannon made of cast iron. Grandfather made one of the handheld-sized ones for me, and it actually worked for many years. I also learned the intricacies of fireworks both as show and as weapons. Kuang Tung belonged to an odd Tibetan religion, Buddhism. As warlike as the Tibetans were I was curious about their beliefs, but they proved to be rather passive and too reflective. Perhaps that was why their incursions into the Middle Kingdom were always beaten back. In any case, he was a most patient teacher, tirelessly explaining the inner workings of his machinery until I could actually get a feel for how they were developed—a skill that would serve me well later on.
At last I came to my final teacher, the formidable Tsu Chi’a. He was of moderate height for a Han, and rather thin, but ramrod straight, rather than the typical stooped posture of the Hanjen. His small dark eyes were heavily lidded and perversely expressionless. His thin, clean-shaved face was almost cadaverous with its pale, parchmentlike skin. He proposed to teach me history, geography, cartography, navigation, tactics, philosophy, and most important, manners. He was a remarkable teacher. He could actually answer all my questions and demanded and received my complete attention at all times. This was simple for I was fascinated by everything except the manners. These were tedious and, to put it mildly, excessive. Still, if I didn’t put on his manners for him, he wouldn’t go on to the interesting things. It was blackmail, but a small price to pay for all he taught me. I wish I could say that the manners were a help to me as years went by, but I can’t. No other people I have encountered were that silly about interpersonal encounters. As Grandfather George said, the Hanjen have a flair for complicating the mundane. Everything else he taught me, however, proved to be very useful. Most importantly, he taught me how all these subjects were synergistic, and if applied that way the potential was unlimited. For example, if I decided to be a general, from history I would know what had been tried before and how successfully, from geography I would know how to shape the lessons of the past to the problem at hand, from cartography I could be secure in my knowledge of the terrain in detail, from navigation I could explore the unknown and find my way back home safely by studying the stars, or should they be obscured by means of the lodestone (a marvelous discovery that always pointed north), from tactics I would understand how others used the strengths and limitations of their forces to best advantage, and from philosophy I would be able to think clearly and logically to bring all my knowledge to bear on the problem at hand. I was with this last teacher the longest and was a young man of seventeen years when he dismissed me. I suspect that under his cold, impassive front he was as fond of me as I was of him.
By now I have managed to give the impression that I spent my youth in hard study with never a thought to frivolity or diversion. But the truth is, that while I did apply myself to my studies, my grandfather George was not too old to remember what it was like to be young. And, I suspect having me around made him feel younger. We dedicated one day a week to what he called my bookless education. We explored the city, both the new part where we lived and the old part across the river. We always steered clear of the palace, however, not wishing to be noticed, or by any accident be drawn into the constant intrigue there. It was like a city within the city, large and imposing, but Grandfather George had an exaggerated fear of getting too close. Whenever the current Khan, Toghon Temur, or his chancellors deigned to wander forth, we would always stay far out of their path. I still think it was unlikely we would have been of any interest to the Khan or his court, but Grandfather was right in keeping me away from the very empty court life, and, in truth, it really didn’t interest me at all.
We also explored beyond the city, taking day trips on horseback, for my grandfather also loved to ride. As my traveling companions had suggested, I got him to take me to the Great Wall. In fact it was one of his favorite sites, and we spent hours studying it and speculating on what it must have taken to build it. While most Mongols saw it as a monument to Hanjen folly, to me it was rather a monument to ingenuity, determination, and engineering skill. It always comes to mind when I think of the Hanjen, and I think it is a good symbol for them, strong, enduring but not impermeable or as forbidding as they first appear. It was during our excursions outside the city that I would practice with the bow both on foot and from horseback as well as hunting and tracking. It was also during one of these outings that I met my first and only love, Paula.
Paula was the niece of a Polish (from Poland, a large kingdom east of the Holy Roman Empire) merchant who had found himself trapped in Karakorum during the disintegration of the Empire of Kubilai. Unable to return home, he moved to Khanbalikh and continued his trade. His brother, Paula’s father, had been with him but died when she was still a child. She was just my age and breathtakingly beautiful. Her eyes were as blue as mine, but her hair was lighter and her skin fairer. Her cheekbones were visible but not overwhelming, and she had a good nose like my family, not the nubbins of the rather flat-faced Mongols and Hanjen. She was tall and sturdy for a woman, but was still very feminine. She could ride a horse as well as most men (who were not Mongols), but had never used a bow until I taught her. To my great relief and joy she also found me attractive and loved my company. I had no real experience with women since coming to live with my grandfather, for his wife had died long before and his only servants were two older men. When we first met, I was somewhat in awe of her and painfully shy, but she was so self-assured that she ignored my shyness and befriended me anyway chatting freely and confidently. While I had always been interested in the use or structure of things, she helped me see and enjoy their beauty. She would take us out of the way to see a view she found particularly beautiful. She would stop suddenly and point out a flower, a tree, a stream, or even an animal she found arresting. It was a whole different view of the world, and I was much amazed by it and her.
We met a scant six months before my education was complete and in that short time I was totally smitten. We pledged to be married and were greatly relieved to find that her uncle and my grandfather were not opposed and in fact seemed altogether unsurprised by it all. I often wondered later if they had planned it all along, but if they had, they did us both a great favor. We all agreed that she and I would marry as soon as I decided what I would do with myself after all this training.
When I returned home after Tsu Chi’a told me he had no more to teach me, my grandfather and I sat down to discuss my future. By now I had been longer with him than with the rest of my family and indeed felt much closer to him. Knowing my training was winding down and anxious to start my life with Paula, I had been thinking about the future, but had still not come to any firm decision. We sat in silence for a while after our meal, me weighing options for the future, him perhaps thinking of our time together. Finally he broke into our reveries.
“Karl,” he began, “I cannot express how much I have enjoyed having you here with me all these years. I could not love you more if you were my own son, even if you are nothing like my own son. Still, you are a credit to him and your mother, and, to some degree, me. Now your training is over, and it is time for you to become a man and decide your own fate. It was for this that you came here and were trained. God knows you have ‘learned things’ as you wished. You do have some options and have no doubt given them much thought. I would only caution you not to make remaining here one of your options. I am quite old, and will likely not see it, but there is no way the Khanate will survive your lifetime. We are semujen (non-Mongol foreigners) and as such are resented by the Hanjen for our privileges under the Mongols. When they take Khanbalikh, they will not be merciful to us or the other non-Hanjen. I can’t really blame them for their resentment, but I do fault their racism, a most un-Mongol trait. There is a whole world out there. I would urge you to pick a direction other than south and go.”
“Grandfather,” I replied, “I would have to be a fool not to see what is coming here. My future definitely lies away from Khanbalikh. I’m still not sure where to go, but I do think I should try to find the Ordu and report back to father. It was he who sent me here, and I owe him that much. I do think of them all and wonder if they are well. Besides, it would be interesting to hear what Kaidu plans to do with the Ordu—if, indeed, it still exists.”
“I’m proud of you, Karl,” he smiled tenderly. “You are indeed a dutiful son, and to return to the Ordu is the right thing to do. I suspect, however, that you will find you have outgrown the Ordu and the nomad’s life and want something more. You will be the most educated man there—if not among all Mongols. Still, I remember Kaidu to be a most wise and thoughtful man, there are few such men around, and you could serve far worse. You were named ‘Karl.’ In our family history that always meant change. Indeed, we have never had anyone in the family trained as you have been. It also has meant travel, and I see no alternative to that now. Perhaps you will lead the remnants of the family to new lands. It should be exciting.”
“I don’t know, Grandfather,” I shrugged, “I have not traveled much except for the nomadic wandering about the Karamuren and my journey here. I have often dreamed about seeing the places I have read about—even the place from which we originally came, far to the west. It could be quite an adventure, especially with Paula by my side.”
“Indeed, my boy,” he chuckled, “and youth is the time for adventure. Paula is a fine strong girl, the perfect companion for adventure. I will greatly miss you, but you will soon find your way back here to gather up your bride. As to the journey home, you had best leave soon before the rains make your trip truly miserable.”
Paula agreed that I was doing the right thing checking up on my family but urged me to be very careful and return to her as soon as possible. Two days later, I left Khanbalikh behind, and returned over much the same course I had come by, this time guided by maps and signposts to the still-operational yams along the way. There were a few nights I spent under the stars but most of the time the yams were still in use although meaner than I remembered them with more meager rations and rather sorry-looking mounts. Not much seemed to have changed along the way, the same small towns and villages, the same farms and huts; it was not until I approached the Karamuren from the Sungari that I saw a change. Not only had I not run into the Ordu, but also there was no sign that they had ever been here this year.