Looking for Marco Polo (13 page)

“Marco was purged—his guts were empty—and the shaman’s medicine was working in his chest, but the treatments had left him weak and shivering.

“He was frightened and depressed, ashamed about holding the others back. He was about to give up. It went through his mind that it would be better—easier—to die, just slip away in his sleep.

“That’s when the shaman’s dog saved him.”

Boss rattled his tags.

The signora smiled and pointed down. “Like that one, yes?”

Mark nodded, smoothing the great head at his feet.

“Without being told to do so,” the doctor said, “the shaman’s dog lay down beside the sick boy to give him warmth and courage.

“When the old priest left, his dog stayed. From that day forward the dog lived with Marco, following him everywhere.”

Mark reached down and scratched Boss’s ears.

“Marco lay half-dead for weeks. It was a long time before he could travel again.

“As they rode slowly down out of the mountains nearly a year later, they came to a place where they were met by Kublai’s royal escort. The emperor had gotten word of their approach. Nothing happened in his kingdom that he didn’t hear about as fast as men could sprint and ride.

“Early in his reign Kublai had ordered the roads improved and marked with cairns and signposts and a smooth center lane laid out for himself. Trees had been planted for shade and windbreak and post stations built every twenty-five or thirty miles, each with horses and riders ready at any hour to hurry news to the emperor or to bring him some rare fruit just ripened in some distant province.

“Between the post stations there were foot runners waiting at three-mile intervals, each wearing a belt with loud bells so the runner at one stop could hear another approaching and snatch up the message bag midstride like a relay racer.

“In this way Kublai learned overnight about wars and floods ten days’ march away as he ate the first ripe peaches.

“During the last forty days of their trip, the Polos rode on post horses and fed well with the soldiers at their post stations as they made their way to the emperor of the East at his summer palace at Xanadu.

“It was early in the morning and cold when Marco stood with his dog, his father, and his uncle at the entrance to Kublai’s tent.

“They had washed and dressed carefully. The young Venetian wore polished maroon leather boots, black woolen hose, and a bright blue cloak of finest English wool. It came to his knees. His skin was pale compared to the Mongols’, his eyes round and hazel-colored, while theirs were black and almond-shaped. His hair was brown and curling; theirs was straight and black.

“The huge dog knew to hang back, but the Polos all started to go in together. The guards stopped the older ones.

“Marco was ordered to go in alone.

“For a moment he stood in the doorway, unable to move.

“At that instant Mustafa came to him in a vision and hissed in his ear, ‘Pretend to be brave even if you aren’t. It’s eat or be eaten with that man, so keep him off balance. Do not try to amuse him; confuse him. In no way seek his friendship or protection. Pretend to be immune to any threat, safe from any danger.
Go!’

“Marco went in.”

Boss began his long kowtow wake-up stretch as the doctor stood up slowly, like a big stick figure unkinking. “It’s late. Time to shove off,” he said, pulling at his turban. “Come on, boy.”

“Hey!” Mark protested. “You can’t stop there!”

“No! No!” the signora exclaimed. “No matter how late, we must hear.”

Hornaday shrugged, emptied his glass, and sat down again. He was like a performer called back for an encore.

“If you say so,” he said, taking a deep breath.

“Kublai’s summer capital was in Mongolia. It was a walled park sixteen miles around in the high grasslands. At the center there was a palace, but Kublai preferred living in something that reminded him of the tents of his childhood. The palace of marble with
columns and ornaments was for his people: they loved dazzle; it made them feel strong. He didn’t need that; he preferred the white tent of felt and bamboo he’d ordered set up in a field of tall steppe grass.

“At the entrance to Kublai’s tent, two of his biggest guards stood with iron rods beside what the Mongolians called a humbling bar, a knee-high stick visitors had to step over.

“The height of the bar signified the occupants’ rank and compelled respect, since crossing it required one to bow, and the higher the bar, the deeper the bow. It was also believed to keep out ghosts because ghosts couldn’t bend their knees.

“Mongol men were shorter than Europeans. They wore heavy fur coats that brushed the floor. They were careful about crossing the entrance bar, but sometimes a foot or a coat hem touched it. Nothing was supposed to. Touching it was considered a bad omen. If a visitor tripped or misstepped and touched the bar, Kublai’s guards would strip the offender and whip him, and he’d have to pay to get his clothes back.

“Marco was tall; he floated over it. He was twenty-one.

“Kublai’s tent was supported by six white poles, gilded and banded blue and topped with carvings of dragons like the ones on Mark’s pillow. The ropes were
white silk. There were blue panels in the roof with the constellations figured in silver at their positions on the longest day of the year. The room was fragrant with roses.

“The emperor of the Tartars sat in a white silk robe on a carved wooden bench cushioned with a scarlet rug. He was shorter than Marco, muscular, the color of tarnished copper. His skin was sleek, like it had been oiled. His square face shone behind a long black mustache and a skimpy clutch of brushed chin whiskers. His ears were long and pink, the lobes white and fleshy. It was said that his great ears caught every secret. His chest was broad; his arms were thick. His hair was tucked under a white skullcap tied tight with a thick black band. His eyebrows were tapering gray lines high above his eyes, which were half-closed. When he opened them wide, they cast light. It was said that the secret of his power was in his burning eyes. His mouth was small, his lips thin, the teeth small and yellowish. He was fifty-eight.

“He wore no jewel or ornament of office. He didn’t need to; you saw him and you knew you were in the presence of power.

“In front of his throne a thick cord of silk hung from a tent pole. When emissaries came from neighboring tribes to pay tribute, Kublai would invite them
to climb it. Few could. He would laugh and pull himself up hand over hand without effort. He called for challengers at rope climbing. No one had ever come forward.

“A broadsword crusted with dried blood, flesh, and hair lay against his bench. A strong man would have needed both arms to wield it; Kublai managed it with one. When news came of any challenge to his authority, he would take his sword, slash off the end of his climbing rope, and send the stump to his enemy as he set out after him. Most fled or died; Kublai took no prisoners.

“Marco stepped forward and bowed in the European manner.

“Kublai was surprised. He didn’t know what to make of this young, close-shaved European who bowed but did not kowtow.

“‘Are you a priest?’ the emperor asked in Persian. ‘I sent for priests and teachers.’ He spoke slowly in a high-pitched voice.

“Marco knew enough Persian to understand and answer. ‘No, Sire,’ he said in a level voice as deep as he could make it.

“‘Are you a teacher?’

“‘No, Excellency.’

“‘Are you a merchant?’

“‘No,’ said Marco, struggling to keep his voice steady.

“‘What are you, then?’ the Mongol yelled, half rising from his throne.

“Marco was respectful. He was scared, but he tried not to show it.

“‘Eyes, ears, nose, fingers, and memory,’ the slim Venetian replied, touching his eyes, ears, nose, and forehead as he spoke.

“Kublai caught his breath and stared openmouthed. Was this rudeness?

“‘Of those I have thousands on thousands,’ he snarled. ‘I ask your pope for a hundred teachers and all he sends is a sharp-tongued stripling?’

“The emperor pursed his lips so they bulged out purplish. He stared hard at the young man standing calm before him. The hotter Kublai got, the cooler Marco felt.

“‘All right, Eyes, Ears, Nose, Fingers, and Memory, speak!’ Kublai growled at last. ‘Tell what you have met coming here!’

“‘I will, Excellency, and I will be grateful if you, in turn, will tell me why, with your thousands on thousands, you have asked for a hundred of our teachers?’

“Kublai reached for his broadsword to cut down
this impertinence. Then he caught himself and laughed. His laughter was like barking. ‘Speak, Venetian!’

“Marco began to describe his trip.

“‘We started our journey by water, Excellency, five weeks’ sailing from Venice to Acre. We traveled in convoy, ten of our long black ships. In an evil fog conjured by pirates, we were attacked off the coast of Palestine. We lost a galley and ten of her crew, but we gave better than we got. We holed two of theirs.

“‘After we saved our own, I was for picking up their drowning, but our captain said no. “I’d sooner take scorpions aboard,” he said. “Those men are drugged and heedless of life. They’d do everything they could to take us over, even at the cost of their own lives.” So we left them gagging on their fate.’

“Marco’s voice was slow and soft like the low notes on a flute, not shrill and fast like the high-pitched Mongol voices Kublai was used to.

“‘At Acre I went into the buried temple where they store water, so even in the dry season they have plenty. We went to the fountains where those faithful to Muhammad bathe their hands, face, and feet five times daily before prayers and after being with a Christian.

“‘I ate the sweet dried fruits of that place—raisins,
currants, sultanas, dates, and figs. I touched the tall carved stone Alexander placed to point his way east. The men there squat to pass their urine in the manner, we were told, of the prophet Muhammad, because they wear skirts.’

“Marco paused. Kublai waved his hand. ‘More!’ he mumbled.

“‘We set out over the desert of Syria on camels, past a place where there are lions and excellent mines of salt and the people wear on the head a cord ten palms in length that they wind around it.

“‘Before noon that first day, my skin was blistered and my eyes ached from the glare and glittering. Our guide gave me charcoal mixed with sheep fat to daub under my eyes to ease the glare.’

Mark drew a ragged breath and tried not to think of his father fighting the desert light.

“‘We met the wandering people called nomads, who follow flocks and live in round tents of woven hair. As their flocks move, the women collapse these tents and load them on two-wheeled carts. They can do this in an hour. It is said of those people, “The fatherland is the tent and the backs of their horses.”

“‘We traded for the weavings their women and children make,’ Marco said, reaching into his coat,
‘weavings of wool dyed green, purple, and other colors they press from the roots and flowers of that place.’ He pulled out a small tightly patterned rug. ‘A present, Sire.’

“Kublai grunted as he took it.

“
‘Go
on!’ he muttered as he studied and pulled at the small rug. The colors were soft, the knots small and tight. It was fine work. As he smoothed it on his lap, Marco noticed his hands, clean and perfectly shaped, the nails long and polished.

“‘We passed into Iraq, Sire, and came to a place where there is a spring of oil not good to eat but good for burning and as a salve for men and camels afflicted with itch. This oil, too, I brought you,’ Marco said, digging in his pocket for a small jar.

“Kublai reached for the gift.

“‘Be careful when you open it, Excellency. The smell offends.’

“‘I know,’ Kublai replied as he uncorked the jar and sniffed. He jerked his head back. His eyes began to tear.

“Marco pretended not to notice as Kublai rubbed his eyes and cleared his nose, blowing hard, thumb to nostril, then wiping his nose on his sleeve.

“‘We came to the ruins of a great city conquered by your grandfather,’ Marco continued. ‘We were told
the people had surrendered without resistance, but then he herded them outside the gates and massacred every one—even their dogs and cats—and ordered every dwelling knocked down. We wondered at this, since they did not resist….’

“Kublai’s face showed nothing.

“‘There were brightly colored parrots there, my lord. I brought you the feathers of the brightest one—these orange and green ones.’

“Kublai took the clutch of feathers and spread them out on top of the small rug, toying with them and arranging them as Marco spoke.

“‘After many days we came to the gulf of Persia,’ Marco said. ‘At the great harbor of Hormuz, where all the goods of the East are sold, we’d planned to sail with your China fleet in one of the great masted ships.

“‘We arrived too late. We missed their going on the wind that blows your ships home from that place. It would be a year before the next eastward going.

“‘We were offered a boat they make there, but their vessels are small and badly made, the planks lashed together with coarse thread. Those boats leak. We heard that sometimes in the fierce storms of the Arabian Sea, the cords break and they sink. We Venetians know ships, Excellency; these we would not board.