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
