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Authors: Gary Jennings

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“This was the reliquary of the Buddha’s tooth,” said the pongyi, as we passed a golden casket on an ivory stand. “And here is a statue of the dancing deity Nataraji. The sculpture was originally so perfectly made that it began dancing, and when a god dances the earth shudders. Our city was nearly shaken asunder, until the dancing image chipped off a finger in its cavorting, at which it quieted and became only a statue again. Therefore, to this day, all religious images are made with a single deliberate flaw. It will be so trivial that you may never see it, but it is there—just for safety’s sake.”
“Excuse me, Reverend Pongyi,” I said. “But did you, in passing, say that the casket yonder held the Buddha’s tooth?”
“It used to,” he said sadly.
“A real tooth? Of the Buddha himself? A tooth preserved for seventeen centuries?”
“Yes,” he said, and opened the casket to show us the velvet socket where it had lain. “A pilgrim pongyi from the island of Srihalam brought it here, some two hundred years ago, for the dedication of this Ananda temple. It was our most treasured relic.”
Hui-sheng expressed surprise at the large size of the tooth’s vacated resting place, and conveyed to me that the tooth must have been of a size to occupy the Buddha’s whole head. I relayed that rather irreverent remark to Yissun and he to the pongyi.
“Amè, yes, a mighty tooth,” said the old gentleman. “Why not? The Buddha was a mighty man. On that same island of Srihalam is still to be seen a footprint he made in a rock. From his foot size, the Buddha is calculated to have been nine forearms tall.”
“Amè,” I echoed. “That is forty hands. Thirteen feet and a half. The Buddha must have been of the race of Goliath.”
“Ah, well, when he comes to earth again, in seven or eight thousand years, we expect him to be
eighty
forearms tall.”
“His devotees should have no trouble recognizing him, as we might with Jesus,” I said. “But what became of this sacred tooth?”
The pongyi sniffled slightly. “The King Who Ran Away purloined it as he went, and absconded with it. An execrable sacrilege. No one knows why he did it. He was presumed to be fleeing to India, and in India the Buddha is no longer worshiped.”
“But the king got only as far as Akyab, and died there,” I murmured. “So the tooth might still be among his effects.”
The pongyi gave a shrug of hopeful resignation, and went on to show us some more of the Ananda’s admirable treasures. But I had already conceived my idea and, as soon as I could politely do so, I terminated our tour for the day, and thanked the pongyi for his kind attentions, and hurried Hui-sheng and Yissun back to the palace, telling them of my idea as we went. At the palace, I asked an immediate audience with the Wang Bayan, and told him, too.
“If I can retrieve the tooth,
that
will be my gift to Kubilai. Though the Buddha is not a god he reveres, still the tooth of a god ought to be a keepsake no other monarch has ever owned. Even in Christendom, though various relics exist—bits of the True Cross, the Holy Nails, the Holy Sudarium—nothing remains of the Corpus Christi except some drops of the Holy Blood. The Khakhan should be most pleased and proud to have the Buddha’s very own tooth.”
“If you can retrieve it,” said Bayan. “Me, I never even got any of my
own
back, or I would not have to wear this torture device in my mouth. How do you intend to go about it?”
“With your permission, Wang Bayan, I shall proceed from here to the seaport of Akyab, and examine the place where the late king died, go through his belongings, interrogate any surviving family. It ought to be there somewhere. Meanwhile, I should like to leave Hui-sheng here, under your protection. I know now that travel through these lands is arduous, and I will not subject her to any more of that until we are ready to return to Khanbalik. She is well attended by her maid and our other servants, if you will give her leave to stay in residence here. I should like to ask the further favor of keeping Yissun with me as my interpreter still. I need only him, and a horse for each of us. I will ride light, that I may ride swiftly.”
“You know you need not have asked, Marco, for you carry the Khakhan’s pai-tzu plaque, which is all the authority you need. But I thank you for the courtesy of asking, and of course you have my permission, and my promise to see that no harm comes to your lady, and my best wishes for your success in your quest.” He concluded with the traditional Mongol farewell: “A good horse to you, and a wide plain, until we meet again.”
 
MY quest turned out to be not easily or quickly accomplished, although I enjoyed generally good fortune and ample assistance. To begin with, I was received at the squalid seaside city of Akyab by the sardar Bayan had set in command of the Mongol occupation forces there, one Shaibani. He received me cordially, almost eagerly, at the house he had appropriated for his residency. It was the best house in Akyab, which is not to say much for it.
“Sain bina,” he said. “It is good to greet you, Elder Brother Marco Polo. I see that you carry the Khakhan’s pai-tzu.”
“Sain bina, Sardar Shaibani. Yes, I come on a mission for our mutual Lord Kubilai.”
Yissun led our horses around to the stable that occupied the rear half of the house. Shaibani and I went into the front half, and his aides set out a meal for us. While we ate, I told him that I was on the trail of Ava’s late King Narasinha-pati, and why I was, and that I sought to examine the fugitive’s remaining effects and to speak with any still-living members of his entourage.
“It shall be as you desire,” said the Sardar. “Also, I am overjoyed to see you carrying the pai-tzu, for it gives you the authority to settle a vexatious dispute here in Akyab. It is a question that has caused much uproar, and divided the citizenry into opposing factions. They have been so embroiled in this local fuss that they scarcely paid any attention to our marching in. And until it is settled, I am balked of imposing any orderly administration. My men spend all their time breaking up street fights. So I am very glad you have arrived.”
“Well,” I said, a little mystified. “Whatever I can do, I will. But my business concerning the late king must come first.”
“This does concern the late king,” he said, and added in a growl, “May the worms gag on his cursed remains! The dispute is over those very effects and survivors you wish to get hold of—or what is left of them, anyway. May I explain?”
“I wish you would.”
“This Akyab is a wretched and dismal city. You look to be a sensible man, so I assume you will leave here as soon as you can. I am assigned here, so I must stay, and I shall try to make it a useful addition to the Khanate. Now, wretchedness aside, this is a seaport, and in that it is like all seaport cities. Which is to say, it has two industries to justify its existence and support its citizens. One is the provision of port facilities—docks and chandlers and warehouses and such. The other industry, as in every port city, is the pandering to the appetites of ships’ crews while they lay over here. That means whorehouses, wineshops and games of chance. But most of Akyab’s trade is done with India across the Bay of Bangala yonder, so most of the visiting mariners are miserable Hindus. They have no stomach for strong drink and they have not much vigor between the legs, so they spend all their shore time at the games of chance. For that reason, the whorehouses and wineshops here are few and small and poor—and vakh! the whores and the drinks are vile. But Akyab has several halls of games, and they are the most thriving establishments of this city, and their proprietors are the leading citizens.”
“This is all very interesting, Sardar, but I fail to—”
“Only allow me, Elder Brother. You will understand. That King Who Ran Away—his cowardly action did not make him much loved by his former subjects. Or by anyone. I am informed that he left Pagan with a substantial train of elephants and pack animals and wives and children and courtiers and servants and slaves—and all the treasure they all could carry. But every night, on the road, that train dwindled. Under cover of darkness, his courtiers stole away with much of the looted treasure. Servants departed, with whatever they could pilfer. Slaves ran away to freedom. Even the king’s wives—including even his Queen First Wife—took their princeling children and vanished. Probably to change their names and hope to start a new life unblemished.”
“I almost feel sorry for the poor coward king.”
“Meanwhile, just to buy an occasional meal and bed on the road, the fugitive king had to pay heavily to village headmen, innkeepers, everybody, all of them surly and inimical and eager to take advantage of him. I am told that he arrived here in Akyab nearly impoverished and nearly alone, with only one of his lesser and younger wives, a few loyal old servants and a not very heavy purse. This city did not receive him very hospitably, either. He managed to find lodging for himself and his remaining goods and retinue at a waterfront inn. But, if he was to survive, he had to go on farther, over the bay to India, which meant buying passage for himself and his little company. Naturally, any ship’s captain demands a stiff price to transport any fugitive, but especially such a desperate one as he—a fleeing king, with the conquering Mongols close behind him. I do not know what price was asked, but it was more than he had.”
I nodded. “So he tried to multiply what little he had. He resorted to the halls of games of chance.”
“Yes. And, as is well known, misfortune likes to dog the already unfortunate. The king played at dice and, over a matter of some few days only, he lost every last thing he owned. Gold, jewels, wardrobe, belongings. Among them, I imagine, that sacred tooth you are chasing, Elder Brother. His losses were profligate and promiscuous. His crown, his old servants, the relic you speak of, his royal robes—there is no knowing which were won by residents of Akyab here, and which by mariners who have since sailed away.”
“Vakh,” I said glumly.
“At last the King of Ava was reduced to his own person, and the clothes in which he stood in that hall of games, and one wife waiting forlorn in their waterfront lodgings. And on that last desperate day of play, the king offered to wager
himself.
To become, if he lost, the slave of the winner. I do not know who accepted the wager, or how much wealth he staked against the winning of a king.”
“But of course the king lost.”
“Of course. All in the hall were already despising him, though he had enriched them no little, and now they despised him even more—they must have curled their lips—when the desolate man said, ‘Hold. I have one last property besides myself. I have a beautiful Bangali wife. Without me, she will be destitute. She might as well chance having a master to care for her. I will stake my wife, the Lady Tofaa Devata, on one last throw of the dice.’ The wager was taken, the dice were rolled, and he lost.”
“Well, that was that,” I said. “All gone. A misfortune for me, too. But where was there any cause for dispute?”
“Bear with me, Elder Brother. The king asked one last favor. He begged that, before he surrender himself into slavery, he be let to go and tell the sad news himself to his lady. Even wagering men are men of some compassion. They let him go, by himself, to the waterfront inn. And he was honorable enough to tell the Lady Tofaa bluntly what he had done, and he commanded her to present herself to her new master at the hall of games. She obediently set forth, and the king sat down to table, to have one last meal as a freeman. He gorged and guzzled, to the amazement of the innkeeper, and kept calling for more food, more drink. And finally he turned purple and toppled over in an apoplexy and died.”
“So I had heard. But what, then? That was no ground for dispute. The man who won him still owned him, whatever his condition.”
“Bear with me still. The Lady Tofaa, as ordered by her husband, presented herself at the hall. They say the winner’s eyes lighted up when he saw what a choice slave he had won. She is a young woman, a fairly recent acquisition of the king’s, neither a titled queen nor yet mother of any heirs, so she is hardly a valuable property just for her innate royalty. And this city’s standards of beauty are not my own, but some men call her beautiful, and all call her cunning, and with that I must agree. For when Tofaa’s new master reached to take her hand, she withheld it, long enough to speak to all in the hall. She spoke just one sentence, asked just one question: ‘Before my husband wagered me, had he first wagered and lost his own self?’”
Shaibani finally fell silent. I waited a moment and then prodded, “Well?”
“Well, there you are. That was the start of the dispute. Since then, the question has echoed and reechoed all over this misbegotten city, and no two citizens can agree on the answer to it, and one magistrate argues with the next, and even brother has turned against brother, and they fight in the streets. I and my troops marched in not long after the events I have described, and all the litigants keep clamoring at me to settle the contention. I cannot, and frankly I am sick of it, and I am ready to put the whole foul city to the torch, if you cannot resolve it.”
“What is to resolve, Sardar?” I said patiently. “You already said the king had wagered and lost his own person before he put his wife up at stake. So they both were fairly lost. And dead or alive, willing or unwilling, they belong to their winners.”
“Do they? Or rather—since he already went to his funeral pyre—does
she
? That is what you must decide, but you must hear all the arguments. I took the lady into custody, pending resolution of the case. I have her in a room upstairs. I can fetch her down and also send for all the men who were gaming in the hall that day. If you will consent, Elder Brother, to be a one-man Cheng this once, it will at the same time give you your best opportunity for inquiring into the whereabouts of that tooth you seek.”
“You are right. Very well, bring them on. And please send in my man Yissun to interpret for me.”
The Lady Tofaa Devata, though her name meant Gift of the Gods, was not beautiful by my standards, either. She was about Hui-sheng’s age, but she was ample enough to have made two of Hui-sheng. Shaibani had called her a Bangali, and evidently the King of Ava had imported her from that Indian state of Bangala, for she was typically Hindu: an oily brown skin that was almost black, and indeed
was
black in a semicircle under each of her eyes. I thought at first that she had misapplied her al-kohl eyelid-darkening cosmetic, but I was later to see that almost all Hindus, men as well as women, naturally had that unsightly discoloration of each eye pouch. The Lady Tofaa also had a red measle of paint on her forehead between her eyes, and a hole in one nostril where presumably she had worn a bauble before it was lost by her dicing husband. She wore a costume that appeared to be (and was, I discovered) a single length of cloth wound several times about her amplitude in such a way that her arms, one shoulder and a roll of unctuous dark-brown flesh around her waist were left bare. It was not a very seductive baring, and the cloth was a garish fabric of many blatant colors and metallic threads. The lady and her attire gave a general impression, besides, of being somewhat unwashed, but I gallantly attributed that to the hard times she had suffered lately. I might find her unappealing, but I would not prejudge her case on that account.
Anyway, the other claimants and witnesses and counselors in the Sardar’s main room were considerably less prepossessing. They were of various races—Mien, Hindu, some Ava aborigines, maybe even some of the higher-class Myama—but hardly choice specimens of any. They were the usual assortment of layabouts that wait to prey on seamen in the waterfront alleys of any port city. Again I felt almost sorry for the pusillanimous King Who Ran Away, having pitched himself from a throne down among such base company as this. But neither would I prejudge this case because I found
all
the participants so unappealing.
I was acquainted with one rule of law in these regions: that a woman’s testimony was to be far less regarded than a man’s. So I motioned for the men first to have their say, and Yissun translated, as one ugly man stepped forward and deposed:
“My Lord Justice, the late king wagered his person, and I hazarded a stake he accepted, and the dice rolled in my favor. I won him, but he later cheated me of my winnings when—”
“Enough,” I said. “We are concerned here only with the events in the hall of games. Let speak next the man who played next against the king.”
An even uglier one stepped forth. “My Lord Justice, the king said he had one last property to offer, which was this woman here. I took that wager and the dice rolled in my favor. There has since been much foolish argument—”
“Never mind the since,” I said. “Let us continue with the events in sequence. I believe, Lady Tofaa Devata, that next you presented yourself at the hall.”
She took a heavy step forward, revealing that she was barefoot and dirty about the ankles, just like the nonroyal waterfront denizens in the room. When she began to speak, Yissun leaned over to me and muttered, “Marco, forgive me, but I do not speak any of the Indian languages.”
“No matter,” I said. “I understand this one.” And I did, for she was speaking not any Indian tongue, but the Farsi of the trade routes.
She said, “I presented myself at the hall, yes—”
I said, “Let us observe protocol. You will address me as your Lord Justice.”
She bridled in obvious rancor at being so bidden by a pale-skinned and untitled Ferenghi. But she contented herself with a regal sniff, and began again:
“I presented myself at the hall, Lord Justice, and I asked the players, ‘Before my dear husband wagered me, had he first wagered and lost himself?’ Because, if he had, you see, my lord, then he was already a slave himself, and by law slaves can own no property. Therefore I was not his to hazard in the play, and I am not bound to the winner, and—”

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