Looking for Marco Polo (14 page)

“‘The sun at Hormuz is so hot, Sire, tar melts and
runs from what it’s meant to seal. The city is made even more unhealthy by the killing dust that blows in from the desert. These winds affect foreigners most severely because they don’t know how to hide from them. Despite all precautions, many die of the
simoom,
as it is called, and in hours their bodies rot to shells. Also, we were warned that if a foreign merchant dies there—as many do—the king takes all his possessions for himself.

“‘The water we were offered was teeming with worms, so in our thirst we drank the wine of that place. It is made with dates and spices. It made us sick, or perhaps it was the salt
tunnies
—tuna—they sold us to eat.

“‘For us Hormuz, with its evil winds and food, was an unwholesome place, and the king’s way with strangers ominous, so we left, paying a huge price to join a Silk Road caravan and bribing the sheikh every few days not to abandon us.

“‘At one point it was a near thing. We were camped outside a village. The
imam
—the local holy man—came and squatted with our sheikh, eating his broiled dates and drinking deeply of the fiercely spiced date wine. Suddenly this priest threw down his drinking pot and exclaimed, “This is what comes of consorting with infidels”—traveling with non-Muslims, Christians,
is what he meant. “You disrespect your brothers. I curse you,” and with that he rode off.’

“The emperor narrowed his eyes and nodded.

“‘We passed in the direction of the sunrising and the Greek Wind into Persia and went north and east to meet the Road of Silk where it rises into the mountains. It was early autumn when we left the plain; in the mountains it was winter; rain and sleet at first, then snow and winds sharp with ice. On the steeps we had to dismount, sometimes clinging to the tails of our horses and whipping them so they’d drag us up.

“‘Our toes froze. The horses wheezed. Many died of falls and exhaustion. For days we traveled where there was no shelter, sleeping in pits we scooped out of the snow and covered as we could. No birds fly there and fire is not as bright nor of the same heat as elsewhere. Our rice and lentils would not soften; the meat we boiled stayed too tough to chew. I could not get breath.

“‘I grew weak and feverish, my skin dried to parchment, blood came from my nose and bottom, my lips cracked and swelled, my pulse raced. It felt as if my heart were trying to jump out of my chest. At the summit of the highest pass, we stopped to place a stone on a cairn. Travelers do this for luck. I fainted
and fell from my horse. They tied me on. I shook like one in a fit.

“‘Our road passed an empty temple to the Buddha. They laid me in it and built a fire by the doorway. There was no chimney. I was smoked. I was in a daze.

“‘One morning I awakened to bells tinkling and the warbling of a conch horn. An ancient monk had come to honor the Holy One in His temple. This priest wore a dark orange robe, patched and filthy. I thought I was dead and he was from the spirit world until he gave me a sweet smile that I should live.

“‘He sent a doctor of his faith to heal me.’

“Marco stopped talking.

“Kublai stared at him, his face like a turtle’s, unblinking.

“‘What medicines did the shaman give you?’ the emperor asked.

“‘He healed me with magic and chants, jingling bells, drumming, dancing, incense, and mold mixed in red gruel.

“‘I brought you some of his potion,’ Marco said as he handed up a stoppered bottle of clear glass banded with black swirls.

“Kublai turned the bottle in his hand.

“‘The glass is a product of my city,’ Marco explained
with pride. ‘We make all manner of glass there.’

“Kublai had seen such things before but none so delicate and finely banded. ‘The effect of this medicine?’ he asked.

“‘I don’t remember, Sire. They say I slept for days. I know I woke in a sweat as my fever broke, but for a long time—weeks, months—all I knew was that it was a place of tall fir trees. I could see their tops swaying in the wind from where I lay. The fragrance of those trees was the purest scent I ever smelled.

“‘My illness held us back for a year.’

“‘Ah,’ said the emperor. ‘And you are strong again?’

“‘Yes, Sire.’

“‘So the medicine was good,’ Kublai announced. ‘You will go back there with my guards and seek out that priest. You will bring him here with his potions.’

“He signaled that one of his secretaries should make a note.

“
‘Go
on with your getting here,’ Kublai said as he turned the small bottle of medicine around and around on top of the parrot feathers.

“‘Coming out of the mountains, our caravan descended across the long dry plains,’ Marco said, ‘then
into the grasslands, where we met people who raise horses and live in tents made of their hair. My father traded with them for fresh mounts, and they gave us savory steaks of horse meat and the drink they call
koumiss
made from horses’ milk. Our most valuable trade good to them was salt.

“‘For some days we went on, swooping lower and lower like a bird descending as we approached the desert.

“‘We were met by a party of dervishes, the wandering monks of Islam who take a sacred vow never to cut their hair or wash it. They wear bright rags and carry spears, Sire, sometimes walking, sometimes dancing.

“‘They are said to be priests, but our guide warned that many are thieves.

“‘We gave them alms. They gave us news of the locals. As we passed on, they gave the locals gossip of us.

“‘They warned us there were land pirates on the sea of sand we were meant to cross to reach you. They sold us an amulet for a great price to make those pirates afraid.’

“‘What amulet?’ the emperor demanded.

“Marco held out the small clay figure of a draped woman.

“‘And did you see these land pirates?’ Kublai asked.

“‘No,’ said Marco.

“‘So this kept them away,’ Kublai said, juggling the tiny clay woman in his hand as if it might burn him.

“
‘Go
on with your travel,’ he ordered.

“‘The traveler enters the Gobi at the oasis town called Lop, Sire. The first sign of its water is the vulture hanging in the air, waiting to drop on the dying camel or traveler approaching from the other direction who cannot make the last mile in.

“‘We refreshed ourselves there and gathered supplies for our month-long crossing of the desert. The winds blow strongly at that place and lift clouds of dust and silt into the air, giving it a yellow haze. They eat rat there, Sire, and consider it a great delicacy, gutted and roasted in its skin with garlic. They eat lizard and boiled dog as well.

“‘But you rule this land, Excellency, so I will not burden you telling about it.’

“‘Tell!’ snapped the Tartar. ‘If you can surprise me with news of what I know already, perhaps I will let you live.’

“‘Tomorrow, Sire,’ said Marco, turning to leave.

“It was forbidden to turn your back on the emperor. It was an even greater offense to leave Kublai’s presence without his permission.

“The guards approached, their iron rods raised to strike.

“‘Stay or die!’ the emperor hissed.

“Marco turned back. ‘Does the caged bird sing as true as the wild?’ he asked quietly. ‘Never mind. Kill me, and my stories end. I am tired. I will return tomorrow.’

“The Venetian’s heart pounded. He imagined the guards’ blows and the wind of Kublai’s great sword as it fell to sever his neck. But he held steady. This was how Mustafa had told him to end his first audience with the great leader of the Mongols.

“Again he turned away.

“Kublai’s guards moved closer.

“‘No,’ said Kublai, laughing in his high barking way. ‘Let him go. He knows no better. Or perhaps he knows very well.’

“Marco’s visit left Kublai restless. There’d been a time when he’d been quick and brash like Marco. Now he felt heavy and burdened. He called for his horse and his ten strongest companions. Together they galloped hard into the park his hunters kept stocked with wild animals. Kublai was a fierce rider and reckless hunter. He lived for danger; only when he risked his life did he feel alive.

“They cornered a tiger. Kublai jumped from his
horse and took it on with his black lance, the blade inlaid with gold.

“The beast crouched ten feet away, hot with fury. Kublai had one chance. If his blade missed the heart, he’d get mauled before his men could save him.

“With a scream he hurled the lance.

“The blade went true. Red showed on gold.”

Hornaday paused, pulled the scimitar from his belt, tested the blade, tucked it back, then adjusted the red turban.

“Leaving Kublai’s tent,” Hornaday resumed, “Marco was escorted to the lodge for imperial guests. Visitors to Xanadu—diplomats, noblemen, high-ranking tribute-bearers, Persian merchants, Arab traders—were all put up in this compound. His father and uncle were bunked together with the others, but Marco was given a private suite furnished with every luxury, layers of fine rugs, sheets woven with silk and wool to sleep on, a marble tub for bathing, and every delicacy Mongols knew. His great dog lived with him, sleeping beside him, eating what he ate.

“Marco was comfortable enough—this was better than kangs and snow pits—but he was never alone.
Fluttering, light-footed women in bright silks brought his food and bathed and dressed him. A hidden minder watched him always.

“At noon the next day Marco was summoned back to the white tent. He prepared himself carefully. He rehearsed his speech about the doge’s request.

“‘Continue the story of your getting here,’ Kublai ordered as Marco stepped over the humbling bar.

“‘The doge’s letter, Sire,’ Marco began. ‘His gifts … Your reply—’

“Kublai’s roar cut him off. ‘My reply? My reply? I do not reply to
you,
Venetian! Tell as I demand!’

“Marco forced himself to stand tall and take a deep breath as he pushed his hands tight against his sides.

“‘We set out across the Gobi,’ he began, ‘all shale, boulders, and wind-driven sand that shrieks as it washes away tracks and landmarks.’”

Mark pictured his father somewhere out there. It was as if the doctor were telling his nightmare of his father lost in sand waste, the wind making eerie screams, the awful emptiness, his thirst. The boy’s breath came short. His hands were freezing. He looked at his mom; she’d gone pale.

Boss snuggled close to his legs.

The doctor kept on. “‘We’d bought what our guide said we’d need to get through that place of fire and cold.

“‘At its narrowest, the desert takes a month to cross. No one has ever gone its length. It’s all worn-down mountains, sand plains, sudden sinks. There’s nothing to eat. If your guide is lucky, you will find water, but sometimes the underground course shifts away from where you expected to find it, or what you come upon is so bitter with salts you cannot swallow it. Other times you arrive at a well that was promised to be good only to find it fouled with camel waste from the last caravan.

“‘We were told by a seller in the market we should wear red to frighten off the dragons. Another said, “No, the dark absorbs the sun. White is better.” So we bought from both. By day we wore white; at night, when dragons roam, we wore red. We daubed our mounts’ necks with goat blood as demon repellent.

“‘That first merchant was splendid-looking, with a curly black beard, slender nose, and large black eyes. On his head was a wide turban, green, with a half-moon of coral pinned on. Perhaps his wife was just as striking, but all we could see of her were ragbound feet at the bottom of a dark red bag with eyeholes. I don’t know how she got air enough to breathe.

“‘Our guide was dark. He was not young: his braided hair was streaked with gray. Such of his face as we could see was all lines and hollows, and what teeth
he had were brown. His forehead was low and broad, his nose high and hooked. He wore a long-tailed, tangerine-colored coat with wide lapels that he could fold up to cover his face. The coattails he tucked into heavy pink trousers, which in turn were tucked into tall, pale blue boots. He slept in a tent of white cotton trimmed with red and green.

“‘His constant companion was a large white rooster, by day chained to the saddle, pitching uneasily, balancing with his large white wings. At night he roosted unchained on a post at the front of his man’s tent. His feet were huge, with long curving yellow claws.

“‘One night a thief tried to sneak in. He ran off screaming under battering wings and rooster claws that cost him an eye.

“‘That rooster was the only pet. The scavenger dogs that followed our caravan out of Lop were soon eaten.’”

Boss shifted uneasily.

“‘The guide’s deputies wore red tunics under black cloaks. They carried the long curved knives of the desert and slept outside on rugs. At night they took turns chanting the epic of the desert together, the same three notes deep and slow in their throats.

“‘It was like this, Excellency,’ Marco said, looking down at a square of paper in his palm.

“He began to chant in his deepest voice like those men had, a long piece of music that sounded like crying.

“When he stopped, he looked up.

“‘Perhaps you know this music, Sire?’

“Kublai was wide-eyed. No man had ever sung to him before.

“‘Perhaps,’ he muttered. ‘Perhaps, Venetian. Continue.’

“‘Our caravan was forty camels, Sire. Camels stink. Their spit is foul. If you annoy one, he will spit his juice at you and attempt to bite. The bite of a camel is an evil thing, deep and hard to heal, quick to infect.’

“Kublai nodded and pulled up his sleeve to show a jagged purple scar on the fleshy part of his upper arm. ‘A camel bite,’ he said.

“Marco glanced at the wound and shrugged as if it were nothing—as Mustafa had advised him to do under such circumstances.

“‘The evening before our departure,’ Marco continued, ‘the serving men, all slaves, stuffed pillows and blankets of felt under the camels’ saddle frames so they would not rub. Those frames would not be lifted until the beasts returned four months later—if they returned at all.