Hope of Earth

  The khan waved him away, then slapped the bare bottom closest to his hand. The woman stirred, more than ready to do his business.

  Sahara was waiting to complete his dressing. “You look dismayed. He told you?”

  “Yes. I never suspected.”

  “My instruction was to ascertain whether you were potent. I don’t see how there could have been any doubt.”

  She had misunderstood, but this was also relevant. “The khan thought I might be impotent?” Had Wildflower told?

  “I think he just wanted to be sure. Some men are not partial to women. It would be extremely awkward to have such a man marry into the family.”

  “I thought he wanted to wean me away from my wife.”

  She shrugged. “That too, perhaps. But I think he was not disappointed when I failed.”

  “Did you really try?”

  “There was no need, once I had fulfilled my mission.”

  That explained why she had let him be, after he had turned her down. Her instructions had been limited. He was relieved; he wasn’t sure how long he could have held out, had she persisted. “And you would have married me, as a second wife, had I been inclined?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Have you no life, no wishes of your own, apart from the will of the khan?”

  “No.”

  “What, none?”

  She smiled wistfully. “I hope that some day he marries me to a noble who will value me as you value your wife, and who will be as true to me as you are to her. To love and be loved, as it is with you. But Allah’s will be done.”

  Suddenly he felt affection for her. She was a human being, rather than a mere body. And perhaps she could be of real use to him. “Sahara, may I confide in you?

  “You may do what you like with me, as always.”

  “No. Not by order of the khan. This must be by your own choice.”

  She looked alarmed. “Please do not say anything treasonable. I would have to report it, and we both would suffer.”

  “No, nothing like that. I have a personal question you might help me with. But I ask for your confidence, in the manner of a friend, if you feel any friendship for me.”

  “I am a creature of the khan’s. I—” Then her expression changed, and her eyes became bright. She had been sorely flattered. “I would not have minded marrying you, though you be Christian. You are a fine and brilliant man. But I am glad I could not sully your love for your wife. I will be your friend, to the extent I am able. What do you wish of me?”

  “The reason the khan tested my potency is because I was impotent with my wife. I love her, but she is too much like my sister.”

  Her mouth formed an O of astonishment. “I never suspected! You were so virile. Yet you resisted me.”

  “It was difficult. Extremely difficult. But what I want more than anything else is to be potent with her. I know she is not my sister, and that she is worthy. But what I could do with you, I can’t with her. Can you help me?”

  She laughed. “It is an irony, that I must enable a man like you to be potent with another woman. But there is lore. Sometimes with political marriages, when the woman is unattractive, or when a husband is troubled and unable to do what he wishes to—there are love-herbs. I can give you one that would make you potent with your own grandmother, for an hour. You must take it an hour before the need.”

  “I think that is what I must have. You are sure of it?”

  “Oh, yes. Had I put that in your food, you would have plunged me raw, regardless of your aversion.”

  “Thank you for not doing that.”

  “Thank the khan, that he did not direct me to.” She fished in a hidden pocket and brought out a tiny silk pouch.

  “You keep it with you?”

  “I must always be ready to do the khan’s bidding, whatever its nature. But have no concern; had I used it on you, the test would not have been valid. Your potency would not have been natural. In any event, there was no need. Your potency was quite evident.”

  To be sure. “How do I take this?”

  “In your wine, or water, or food; it does not matter. But make sure that she will be with you, because you will be in pain if she is not.”

  “In pain?”

  “Your urgency will become unendurable in the second hour after you take it, so that you will grasp whatever offers, even if you must rape the scullery maid. You would not like that, for she is twice your age, and ugly as a toad.”

  “I will make sure to be with my wife. You mentioned an hour of potency; what happens after that?”

  “The body becomes exhausted with the savagery of repeated indulgences, and sinks into sexual lethargy. You will not be able to achieve potency for the following twelve hours, and thereafter only with effort. So the love-herb is not wise to take unless you really require it.”

  Ned thought of something else. “Does this love-herb work on women too?”

  “Oh, yes! That is how it is usually used. There are no reluctant maidens in the khan’s palace, unless they have the wit to avoid the wrong foods or drinks. Or the wit to flee to the nearest frigid pool the moment they feel the first surge of lust.” She smiled. “Sometimes several lovely girls dive mysteriously into icy water at odd hours, occasionally in their dresses. No one professes to know why.”

  Ned laughed. “Has that ever been the case with you, Sahara?”

  “Yes. I can speak for the power of the love-herb.”

  “The bath you shared with me was hot.”

  She smiled. “I would have needed no herb with you, Ned. It would have been a pleasure.”

  “And if I should take the herb, and then through some foul mischance not be able to be with Wildflower for that hour?”

  “Then come to me, Ned, quickly, and I will abate your ardor and keep your secret, as a friend would.”

  He tucked the bag into his own pocket. “Thank you, Sahara; this is exactly what I needed.”

  “She will surely be most pleased, for an hour, and then rather tired,” she said wistfully.

  He kissed her, a thing he had not done before. “I hope so.” He was vastly relieved.

  Then he thought of something else. “The dowry! By Moslem custom, the man gives it to the woman, or her family. But I am poor. I have nothing worthy of a princess.”

  “No need to be concerned. A small dowry is in order, in a case like this, because a princess needs no enhancement. I have a bauble of little worth, that will do as the symbol.” She fetched a tiny closed box. “Do not open it. Merely give it to her at the appropriate time. She will understand.”

  “But won’t it insult the khan?”

  She smiled. “He told me to give you this. Now the trinket is yours, and it will be hers. Be guided by our judgment; the gift will not be taken amiss.”

  He accepted it. “Thank you again, Sahara.”

  “It is a pleasure to assist so good a man.” She squeezed his hands around the box, and then departed.

  Ned learned that Moslems did not take marriage as seriously as Christians did, or at least not in the same way. They adapted to whatever cultural rituals existed in the local population. A man could divorce his wife simply by declaring publicly “I divorce thee” three times, and of course a man could have four or more wives. So he did not expect much, on the day the khan had decreed for his marriage to Wild-flower.

  He was surprised. It was not a wedding at all; it was a dance. Was he being mocked? Sahara had dressed him carefully in a formal robe, then disappeared. The khan was seated on his throne, watching several appealing young women gyrate. There was a considerable audience also watching the show.

  “Ah, there you are,” Toqtamish said, spying Ned. “Come stand by me. This will surely be worthwhile.”

  Had the khan forgotten about the wedding? Ned went to stand by him, disturbed. He hadn’t seen Wildflower in a month, and missed her. He wanted to be with her again.

  The women cleared away, and another appeared. She was of statuesque proportions, and she
moved with singular grace. She did not remove her heavy veil, but Ned recognized her: Sahara. The Mongols belonged to the Hanafite school of Sunni Islam, which sect did not require veils for women. But veils were often used for decorative purpose, or in dances, where they enhanced the mystery and made the dancers more alluring.

  “Ah yes—you are to be married today,” the khan said to Ned. “But who would be a suitable bride for you?”

  Ned did not dare answer the rhetorical question. Was Toqtamish playing one of his jokes? Did he intend to make Ned marry Sahara?

  “I think it should be she who dances best,” the khan decided. “So let us compare.” He snapped his fingers.

  Sahara beckoned offstage. A woman appeared. She danced well. But the khan shook his head after a brief interval, and she was replaced by another. That one in turn was replaced by a third, and so on in a chain.

  “No, these are not good enough,” Toqtamish said. He glanced at Sahara. “Show these amateurs how it is done.”

  Now Sahara danced, and she was indeed superior. Her limbs and body were matchless, and her skill was phenomenal. Ned knew that no one was going to dance better than she did.

  Then there was a commotion at the far end of the hall. A guard appeared. “What is this interruption?” the khan demanded irritably.

  “Lord, a royal procession approaches.”

  “But this is not my time for visitors,” Toqtamish said. “There is no appointment. We are engaged in private business here.”

  “Do you wish us to drive it off?”

  The khan hesitated. “I need more information. Ned, go out and ascertain what’s going on.”

  Ned obediently went out with the guard. Beyond the pavilion there was indeed a procession of wagons: several small ones, and one large one. The main one was covered with rich blue cloth, with several curtained windows. They walked out to intercept it.

  The wagons halted. Lovely girls got out of the small ones, each wearing a finely worked robe and a silk veil, along with a cap encrusted with jewels. They walked to the large wagon, where they opened its door and helped an elegant woman descend to the ground. She was completely shrouded in a voluminous cloak, with a hood surmounted by peacock feathers and set with precious stones. She had such a long train that the comely young women clustered around her to catch hold of loops on her robe and lift the skirts clear of the ground. In this manner the lady proceeded toward the palace.

  “But who is she?” Ned asked, daunted by this evident affluence.

  A guard associated with the procession approached them. “Make way for the khatun,” he said bruskly.

  Oh—one of the khan’s chief wives. Satisfied, Ned returned inside, where Sahara was still dancing. “The khatun,” he reported.

  Toqtamish frowned. “None of my wives are attending this function. This has to be a stranger.”

  Ned realized that he had made a mistake by not seeking positive identification. Embarrassed, he began to go back out. But the khan stopped him with a gesture. “We might as well discover what she is up to, since she is here anyway.”

  Now the strange woman was escorted to the main chamber. All heads turned to face her, evidently impressed by her royal attire.

  Sahara paused in her dance, and the khan looked across the hall. “Who is this who interrupts our amusement?”

  The woman strode forward, surrounded by her attendants. She lifted her arms, and the girls quickly removed her cloak. Beneath it she wore a dancer’s attire, with a tasseled halter and flowing skirt. She struck a pose.

  “Oh, you came to dance,” the khan said, surprised. “You heard of this contest and decided to participate. Then do so.”

  She danced, and her body came alive in a marvelous way. The ranking wives of the khan had become fat, and were no longer used in bed, but this one was completely lithe. She dipped and whirled, so that her skirts flung out, and her jewelry sparkled. She leaped, and landed, and flung off a tassel at intervals. Her body was slender rather than buxom, but her balance and poise were excellent, and the effect was quite nice. She was good, very good, and Ned saw heads nodding. This stranger was dancing better than Sahara had. But who was she? How could she have such a procession, if she was not really a khatun?

  She came at last to face the khan, and finished with a whirling flourish, bowing down before him, her bosom heaving.

  “You danced very well,” the khan said. “But we have important business here. You must not be anonymous. Who are you?”

  The figure removed her hood to reveal her head. Her face was veiled, but a bright golden crown set with gems sparkled above it. There was a murmur of awe in the hall. This was a princess!

  “So you are of royal blood,” the khan said. “Show us your face.”

  Slowly she removed her veil. It was Wildflower!

  Ned was astonished. He had never seen her like this. She was exquisite, and truly a princess.

  Something changed in him then. It was as if the world changed colors, and what had been familiar became newly unfamiliar. He had known she was a Mongol princess, but still thought of her as his little sister. Now he knew she was the same girl Lin had befriended, but he thought of her as a princess. He had seen her in her royal Mongol splendor.

  “So you are my cousin, the Princess Wildflower,” Toqtamish said. “And you have won the dance. Now you must marry my valet.”

  Wildflower nodded, smiling.

  “Then let it be done.” He looked around. “Who will bear witness to the validity of the contract?”

  Sahara spoke. “I will, Lord. I know this man to be competent and honorable.”

  “Who else?”

  Idiku Berlas appeared. “I will, Lord.”

  “And where is a group of righteous people to establish the validity of the ceremony?”

  A man stood in the audience, one of the ranking officers. “We are here, Lord,” he said.

  “Where is the dowry?”

  There was a pause. Then Sahara’s eyes flicked toward Ned. Oh—he had forgotten.

  “I have it here, Lord,” Ned said, producing the tiny box he had been given. “It is a thing of no great worth, as my family is not wealthy.”

  “It will do,” Wildflower said, accepting it with a smile. She opened the box to show a single bright faceted diamond.

  Ned was amazed. This was the “mere bauble” he had been carrying? It was of enormous value. The khan had played another little joke.

  “Such a small dowry suggests that the groom is extremely desirable in his own right,” the khan remarked with a straight face. He glanced at Ned as if in doubt. “Can this be the case?”

  “It is the case, Lord,” Idiku said gravely. “He is a loyal, gentle, and intelligent man. In any event, the bride needs little, as she is lovely, she is royal, and she carries the favor of all the Mongols.” He glanced significantly at the audience, and it responded with a low chorus of agreement.

  Ned was coming to appreciate how carefully this play had been crafted. This was public recognition of the status of the bride, and of the marriage. Every one of the khan’s questions was rhetorical, with a rehearsed response. It was no conventional wedding ceremony, but it had considerable authority. The khan had had his bit of fun with Ned, leaving him in doubt about the nature of the marriage, but now it was serious.

  “Is your father present?” the khan inquired of Wild-flower.

  “My father is dead, Lord.”

  Toqtamish stood. “Then I, as your nearest male relative, will do the honor.” He took her hand. “Praise be to Allah and blessings be upon His prophet!” He turned to Ned. “I give you my cousin Wildflower in marriage.”

  Now he could speak the line he knew, which was religiously ambiguous. “Praise be to God, and blessings be upon the Messenger of God. I accept her in marriage.”

  Then they kissed. He had kissed her before, but this time there was magic in it. He had thought of this second ceremony as a formality, but knew that it had made his marriage to her real.

  The wedd
ing was done.

  “Now the important part,” Toqtamish said. “The feast.”

  And it was some feast. The food was brought in on tables of gold and silver, each table carried by four men. There was boiled horsemeat and mutton. There were drinks and pastries. The carver came wearing silken robes overlaid by a silk apron, with a number of knives in their sheathes. He cut the meat into small pieces, together with the bones, and served it on small silver platters in which there was salt dissolved in water.

  Ned fed Wildflower tidbits, and she fed him tidbits, and they both drank too much qumys, which was fermented mare’s milk, and honeyed mead. Alcoholic beverages were forbidden by most sects of the Moslem religion, but fermented liquor was held to be lawful by the Hanafites. There must have been something strong in the drink, because both of them got too dizzy to walk straight.

  At last it was done, and they were allowed to leave. Wildflower donned her veil and cloak, becoming the anonymous woman again. Several members of the group saluted them in parting. Ned had no idea where they were going, but she did.

  They came into the nuptial chamber. It was sumptuous, but he hardly noticed. All he could see was Wildflower, the vision of loveliness.

  “I missed you,” he said, taking her in his arms. “I hated being separated from you.”

  “Yes,” she breathed.

  He lifted aside her veil and kissed her. “I think I did not know how I loved you, until I was separated from you.”

  “Yes.”

  They were beside the huge bed. He clasped her and fell upon it. She fell on top of him, her gown flaring out, her legs straddling him. “I do love you, Wildflower! I know it now.”

  “Yes.”

  “And I desire you most ardently. If you—may I—?”

  “Yes!”

  Then he was driving through her clothing, searching for the flesh beneath. She used her hands to make way for him. They rolled over, and he drove on into her explosively, heedless of anything but the need.

  “Yes, yes,” she said, clinging close, squeezing him with internal muscles.

  The bliss of it transported him. “Oh, Wildflower, oh Wildflower,” he gasped, buried within her.

  “Yes.” She held him close, as if unable to get enough of him.