Short Story Assignment: Just an Adventurer

This one was made for an assignment for World History class, about the Silk Road. As was my Bahasa Indonesia assignment, this was also written in Bahasa then translated. There may still be grammatical errors, most likely involving tenses.

However, I could not wait any longer. 

A special thanks to my group members in World History: Reynardi, Billy, James, Aditya, and Timothy. So, here it is:

Just an Adventurer

By Nathan Hartanto

This world is unbelievably unfair.

Why, from a million chances, must he journey here, now?

May those soldiers be damned. May those selfish merchants be damned. May those new Khagans be damned. May his father, who had this crazy idea, be damned. Why must he, Piero, from the old and influential House of di Martino, curl up in this filthy, dank cell?

Come to think of it, it was just a little more than two years ago he knew that his full name was Piero di Martino.  It was just a little more than two years ago he started this madness.

-o-

Republic of Venice, June 1226

           

“Arrivederci!”

From onboard the sailship that slowly picked up speed as the Adriatic winds sped up, Piero waved. He waved to his friends, to his house, and to his lovely city, Venice. The fine floating city off the shores of Italy, built above mud and trading gold after the zenith of Rome’s power has past.

And now, for the sake of trade, did he journey to a land far away on the end of the world.

From the stern, Piero saw the brick red roofs of Venice shrinking in the distance, covered by the gleam of the twilight reflected by the blue waves. Bored gazing, he went below decks.

That honorable man sat there, eating a loaf of fine bread. Piero first saw him almost six months ago. He was gazing the sunset from the railing of the Rialto Bridge, like many bored orphans such as himself, when the man came. He came and said his name, Alberto di Martino.

And he said that he was his father.

Piero could have resented the man. And he should have, as a child resents his father that never went home, going on a nonsensical trip for years and years, never to return even for a moment. But certainly he could not possibly return, because the end of the world was his destination. Piero remembered the shine in both their eyes at the day. The more of the fantastical tale he listened, what with the caravans and the yellow-skinned people and slant-eyed people and people of all sorts, the more he was drawn to this new world.

“Piero,” the old adventurer called him from his seat, “You must already know well why we must journey.”

Why could he forget a duty so important, a duty for the glory of his nation? “Because Doge Ziani wants to invite a Khagan as his trade partner.”

“Correct.” Alberto bit his bread, and chewed slowly.

“But aren’t those horse-lords uncivilized? They could speak neither Italian nor Latin. They do not have proper houses, and they fight unbound to honor!”

Alberto closed his eyes, gazing his memories. “Nonsense! You must remember what I have told you back then. Genghis Khagan is a good friend of the di Martino. And we, as a good friend of Doge Ziani, we must acquaint them.”

Piero was startled, surprised, when his father touched him by the shoulder, and whispered. “Hear me, son, we are just adventurers. But remember, that the bravest of adventurers will reach the happy end.”

-o-

Yes, brave we were, such that we came crashing back to the earth.

Who knows how many days and nights had he been trapped in this filthy prison, in a town far in the heart of Mongolia. He and his father already reached their destinations; that much was true, but he never expected that he might never see the sun and blue skies ever again. Nothing else he could do, Piero delved inside his mind.

His father. He didn’t even know where Alberto was. If he was still alive.

Maybe Alberto was right, after all. Maybe that Genghis was once a good friend of his and the di Martino. Maybe that horse-lord could be a powerful trade partner.

But what kind of friend has the heart to cast an honorable guest in a foul-smelling prison cell? Misunderstanding or else, something like this shouldn’t happen among civilized people.

Ah. Yes. Indeed. They are not civilized.

So this journey was for naught. Perhaps there is a friend waiting for them in Mongolia.

What kind of friend? A dead one. For the great Genghis Khagan had passed away.

-o-

The Xi Xia Lands, October 1227

These barren plains are the lands of heathens. If they are not heathens, at most they are heretics.

But rather than risking losing their way among other heathens and heretics, Piero and his father hitched a ride with a caravan of Eastern Christians. The one and only Christians, they say , but Nestorian heretics to honorable Italians such like himself. But at the very least, there are people believing in the same God as he does, here, thousands of miles away from Europe.

What else could be done? When a caravan they traveled with was going to travel back to the last town they went, they needed to join with another caravan. His father had told him, that this is the way trade went: Europeans brought goods to Byzantium, Byzantines bringing them to Persia, Persians delivering them to India, and so on and so forth until the load reaches China, far off to the Eastern end.

It has been months since their caravan of burly Persians and slant-eyed Chinese started travelling from some oasis city in Anatolia, almost without a certain destination; there were no paved roads such as those left by the Romans, nor dirt paths; the scenery was as wild and untouched as the German forests. Who knew how long the band of carriages and animals creaked, rattled, clipped and clopped through monotonous days, then stopping at night to start a bonfire and rest beside the embers. Truly, Asia is such a vast land. The last time they saw a body of water was the sea of freshwater, which the traders call as the Caspian Sea; and even that was more than a hundred days and nights away, far to the west.

The sun was setting slowly in the direction of that sea, beyond the expanse of mountains, which, according to his father, was called Tian Shan in the language of the East. The darkening sky was lit red, as red as blood, by the setting sun.

Piero once heard, in another oasis town somewhere in Anatolia, not long after he disembarked from the Venetian sailship, that the great Genghis Khagan shall ensure the safety of all adventurers and traders heading to the heart of Mongolia. That much was indeed true, since passing the bounds of the mountain range, not one bandit or criminal had disturbed their good nights’ sleep for months of travel.

However, one thing that did disturb his nights was the fact that their caravan never encountered even one oasis town, let alone a travelling townsman, since crossing the Tian Shan. Shouldn’t the Horse-Lord’s empire be full of people?

He knew the legend which said that the red sky is an omen of death. Since entering these plains, each twilight was a red one. Unsettling.

Even further: The plains around them were barren, through and through; lifeless, grey and charred and occasionally steaming, like it had just been burned. It was eerie, just the clopping of camel hooves and the creak of the carriages’ axles which cried for oil; nobody talked, perhaps taken in by the atmosphere of a cemetery.

When he looked closely to the ground below and around him, from the crisscrossing lines, Piero knew that these fields not long ago were fertile, irrigated for farming bountiful crops. But what—or who—burned these lands, expelling who knows how many people from this place?

The signs of civilization were undoubting. Those once-massive stone statues of look-alike priests, now ruins dotted across the blackened fields, should be the ones taught by Alberto. Statues of some local god, Buddha, says he.

The object that, a few hours ago, was seen a tiny dot on the horizon, gradually grew.

The object, or rather, objects, were now clearly seen, hugging the path they are taking on both sides. A collection of blackened, charred, dry wood and pulverized stone, perhaps the remnants of several dozen hovels and buildings. Other than that—

Piero could see them from above his donkey, at the head of the line. My God, he thought, this is a cemetery.

Among the ruins, several hands and feet and miscellaneous body parts peeked from the rubble, partly burned, partly decayed, partly bones remain; whatever happened to them already passed at least several months ago. It was certain that this city—if it once was really a city—was burned, and not having stones from trebuchets or mangonels flown at them.

Such a barbaric method. Maybe he needs to bring his own trebuchets and mangonels whether or when the barbarians come. Piero didn’t want to see any more of the devastation; God, may those poor souls have rest. It seems that his father, on the donkey beside his, was more interested on the Buddha statues, left rolled over, broken, like it was crying for its people.

But wait.

What is that in the distance?

The plume of dust that appeared before them did seem like a sandstorm. However, according the caravan traders, the plume of just a normal sandstorm here could reach a thousand feet into the air, blotting out the sun. Perhaps, a minor sandstorm, then?

A merchant near him in Persian. He could not understand what he was saying, however he could see what he was pointing at very clearly.

Everyone fell even more silent than before. Whatever on Earth is that?

No sandstorms can come from both sides! That was clearly another plume of dust the merchant was pointing, to the back of the caravan line. Thus, both the cloud in front of them and behind them were not storms.

Both storms—or whatever they were, were inching ever closer, along with an earth-shaking tremor. The merchants, every single one of them drenched with the sweat of fear, tried to pull their carts southward, northward, or anywhere well away from this.

For when two clouds of dust approach each other, accompanied by the rhythmic steps of horses and people, one thing shall certainly happen.

Once again, Piero glanced at his father. Not a light of fear came from his eyes. That was true, they were adventurers. Adventurers must be brave. For their duty to their nation, they must succeed. They must not fall here.

Wait, was there a fearful glint I saw?

-o-

Truly an awful time to travel. True, that his father have said that their safety from bandits are ensured, so long as the Empire stands. And that much was true.

The problem was, nobody said about what will happen when two armies, from the same Mongol Empire, meets, while some unfortunate fellow was trapped helplessly between. Someone which was just an adventurer, like him.

This will happen.

He is just an adventurer, no more, no less. What does one know about politics?

A creak, surprising Piero from his thoughts, as no sound louder than the squeak of some rats were made for so long. As he turned his head around, the cell door opened, the light of a lantern blinded him for a moment.

His heart leapt when a guard appeared before the doorstep. The Mongol yelled, the language coarse in his ear, “Come.”

-o-

The edges of the Gobi Desert, April 1228

This army is queer. Undisciplined, but not one sweltered in the heat of the noon sun of the desert; winter or not. Perhaps, that was because as far as he looked, not one wore a full metal plate of armor.

While thankfully they were protected from the heatwave, Piero and his father were two extremely unlucky adventurers. The cart they hitched this time was a mobile prison cell. The dust was suffocating; their hands painfully bound.

“What did Father say, back then?”

Alberto turned around with an empty face. “What?”

“When the Mongols came.” The ground was gravel and sand, increasing their sore backs after a whole day sitting here. They were forced to leave their donkeys behind that day. The donkeys went off with all of this quite luckily.

Since that day, his father’s expression turned gloomy, empty as it was now. Not the hardened adventurer he claimed to be. More like a dirty convict of barbarians; though that supposition was, after all, a reality. “A mistake.” His lips barely moved.

“What did they ask? I did not understand their language back then.”

Alberto bowed his head. Piero asked once more: “Father?”

“They asked… which… Khagan’s side we…”

If it was just because one wrong answer we are stuck in this mess… “And you answered?”

“Neither. The Doge of Venice.”

Wrong answer. If he remembered correctly, those barbaric Mongols did laugh before throwing them in this foul-smelling cart.

Piero shook his head, vigorously, exasperated. He looked through the little barred window behind him. A barren wasteland, and the march of an all-cavalry army. That is all, nothing else. To think, this is the army of Genghis Khagan that ruled half of the known world.

A barbaric army.

Truly, this was undoubtedly the army that devastated Xi Xia, where they passed several months ago. An immoral army that took thousands upon thousands of lives, perhaps even an entire civilization.

And it was clear, that not only other civilizations they antagonized. For the previous months being caught in the middle of their problem, they could tell that this one Mongol army was fighting another Mongolian army.

Immoral, Piero was sure of it. But still, their ability to stay still above a horse, then shoot their brother between the eye, who was also riding but for a different Khan, was not to be underestimated. It was clear why no bandits tried their hand at hunting all over a greater part of Asia. The part of Asia where these armies march.

And it is also clear, that this is a civil war, no?

Perhaps not just that fight, where ten thousand men with each of their horses from both sides rumbled. This war seemed to already have been won by the Khan that commanded this army, judging from the cheers of the men.

Khagan, no longer a Khan, from those cheers.

That still does not change the fact that they are currently held by that barbaric horse-lord.

-o-

The time to win back or freedom is now.

The overly huge wooden door swung open, revealing a proportionally huge hall. Two dirty prisoners which have not bathed for—perhaps, since they did not see the sun—a month or more doesn’t seem worthy to step foot on the velvet carpets. At the very least, Piero and his father tried to look as presentable as possible by combing their hair.

This in itself was a joke. They were filthy, but Piero felt inappropriate to meet a barbarian. He stopped suddenly. Impossible. There was no way a band of barbarians could construct an impressive palace in the middle of the desert. More impossibly, what he saw inside were rich blue porcelains decorating the hall, ones that he encountered all the way on Persia.

 The guardsmen shoved Piero and Alberto forward. Almost losing their balance for a moment, they staggered through the hall in chains, expensive decorations both to the left and right of the carpet walkway. Even more impressive, the throne to the end of the carpet, which made the entire hall seem like giveaways.

The closer they get, they could clearly see the man sitting on the golden throne. He was neither old, nor young, a little portly built, but his face was clearly that of a fighter. Judging from his father’s expression, he seemed to be meeting an old friend. Truly, before them sat the warrior king.

Just not Genghis Khagan, for one. The fact that the Great Khagan had died could not be refuted. Thus, before them…

The guards pushed Piero and his father to their knees at the foot of the throne. “Kneel before the great Ögedei Khagan!” said one, echoing through the cold and empty grand hall. The soldiers also kneeled, their heads bowed, toughing the ground.

So, this is the son of Genghis, the new Khan of Khans. The commander of his victorious forces.

“Khagan! Son of Genghis!” cried Alberto, still like looking at a ghost.

Ögedei cleared his throat, the very act silencing the breath of every soldier. “So it was true, you were the one that met Father.” Then Father did not lie about meeting Genghis Khagan. “Why were you seen with my brother, Chagatai’s army? My people said you ran from us.”

Alberto was still as pale as when they entered. “Your Grace—“

Unable to stand the farce that was the old adventurer’s melted bravery, Piero spoke up. “Gracious Khagan. There seemed to be a misunderstanding. We are just adventurers from Venice. We have nothing to do with your wars.”

Ögedei rose, clearly annoyed; the guards did also shudder. “Then you are not part of this Empire.”

We are not. But they have traveled far, not only to be kicked out just like that from this barren place. Barren but exotic. Exotic, and most importantly rich. “No, great Khagan! We came far from the West. We do not know Chagatai Khan.”

“He is no longer a khan! As the rightful successor of Genghis Khagan, I strip him from his rights of inheritance.”

Truly, these are strange lands. All records show that Chagatai is the older of the two. Since when could a younger brother strip away his brother’s position? The Khagan sat back down. It seemed that it will take some amount of effort to convince this bastard, the warrior king, horse-lord. That man was a general and politician. He and his father were only adventurers; what do they know about wars and politics?

At least… one thing.

One thing that he looked at each and every day, revolving around two years of journeying through sea and mountains and deserts. “Khagan! Surely your empire could not stand just by war. We Venetians could be your partner in trade.”

Money. That will sure hook him.

And indeed, the Khagan fell silent. Only several seconds later did Ögedei say, “Very well.”

Alberto looked brighter. “Certainly! I shall bring this news to Doge Ziani—“

“However, you must prove to me first your loyalty. Prove that you are not Chagatai’s men.”

There simply must be that problem. Again, this trip became a joke: why should a barbarian king ask about honor? What? What can we do?

His father became speechless yet again, his mouth opened and closed like a breathless fish, his eyes wide open like one too. If he, and he alone, cannot find a way out of this mess, then they shall stay in this mess, trapped forever in Mongolia, at the end of the world, forever.

Damned barbarians!

The barbarians that killed their own brothers and torched an entire settlement, without hesitation, without remorse.

Ah, that is it!

During the time after crossing the Tian Shan, they did never see the towns destroyed by some rocks flung by siege engines. After meeting the less-than-hospitable army, they did never see mangonels nor trebuchets dragged along with the cavalry army. If Ögedei had those trebuchets and mangonels, should he not be the strongest brother among the successors? And then, won’t the bandits fear him more?

Thus, Venice will receive a trustworthy, strong fellow.

I hope this interests you. “Your Grace, you could make an entire city fall in one day and one night, not by two or three years of siege.”

Why should he not be interested? “Speak.”

“In our nation, our armies march with giant catapults, to throw giant boulders through the enemy walls. If you have them, for certain, you will be the strongest Khagan ever.” So you can protect the trade route for us.

A smile ghosted Ögedei’s lips. We got you. “When shall you give us the designs to these incredible machines?”

“As fast as possible.” Hope another European adventurer comes here. Better, an engineer.

They were expelled from the hall with a salute, by a happy Khagan. That day, one day in August or September 1228. Nobody knew for sure, it seemed an extremely long time since he first saw the prison cell. But surely, it was just a little more than two years since Piero started this madness. But not long, he could return to his beloved nation, Venice.

Not long, he will surely be remembered as the person responsible for reuniting the two halves of the world.

Hopefully.

-o-

Created for World History class: Silk Road assignment.

Jakarta, 3 December 2015

Translated to English

Jakarta, 18 December 2015