Looking for Marco Polo (18 page)

“With these thumb-sized pages Marco could recall what he’d heard, seen, smelled, and tasted. He could describe in ways that surprised. When he told about the women watering their dooryard flowers in the evening, you felt the softness of the petals and smelled the vapors rising from the still-warm steps mixed with the fragrance of rose. In his telling you could hear the dry soil suck the moisture.

“What interested Marco interested Kublai—how at such and such a place far from the sea white cowrie shells from the Indian coast pass for money, while in another place, where salt is precious, small bricks of it stamped with the king’s seal are exchanged for necessaries. He told what people in remote lands do with their dead—whether the bodies are buried and with what ceremony, or how the corpse is left on a platform of sticks to rot and be eaten by birds.

“In India, he reported, they burn their dead after a
great procession led by all the musicians in the village drumming and playing as loud as they can as they bear the body from its home to a pile of fragrant wood the family has paid a great sum for and placed in the road. This pyre is draped with silk and cloth of gold.

“When they are about to set it on fire, the mourners come to drink wine and make gifts of images cut out of paper representing slaves, horses, camels, and pieces of money, so in the next world the dead person will have slaves and beasts and coins. They call these paper coins magic money and give them to distressed travelers who are grateful to get them.

“He told the emperor what his far-off subjects wore and how much labor they had to give for it; how the people fixed their hair; what jewels they wore in their ears; what drugs they used for stimulants, stupor, and illness; and, most carefully, their perfumes, pleasures, and rituals, since those interested Kublai more than anything.

“Marco learned that Kublai had walled off part of the palace grounds for a garden he made and tended himself without help from anyone after his engineers had dug the pond and the royal elephants brought in the beautiful trees of that region with all the roots and much earth. In this most private place, the emperor grew fragrant roses and peonies and raised melons
and pears for his own table. The walls were sealed save for one small door. Only he went in.

“The idea that Kublai kept a secret garden fascinated Marco. He’d had no experience with gardens—there were few of any size in Venice—but he imagined a new way of pleasing the emperor. On a trip through the northern mountains, he collected bulbs of the fragrant lily that blooms there and roots of the small shrub azalea with intricate pink flowers and honey scent.

“He said nothing as he carried these into Kublai’s tent.

“That afternoon Marco became the first outsider to be admitted to the emperor’s private garden. On every trip thereafter he collected plants.

“Kublai’s empire included Buddhists, Hindus, Christians, Muslims, a few Jews, pagans, and followers of innumerable cults. Kublai tolerated them all. ‘We Mongols believe that there is only one God,’ he told Marco one afternoon, ‘but as God gives us the different fingers of the hand, so he gives to men diverse ways of understanding and believing in Him.’

“The emperor’s own spiritual adviser was the filthily robed, strange-eyed priest who read the cracks in baked bones of sacrificed animals for messages from Kublai’s ancestors. He would bring Kublai these chalk white bones and tell him the portents he read in
the fine gray tracery of cracks through his one bulging eye as the other wambled heavenward.

“This man knew the rare breathing art that enabled him to generate body heat to keep warm while he slept naked on a bare stone bed in a cold room.

“Because Kublai was anxious to keep on good terms with his ancestors, this priest was, after the emperor, the most powerful person at court. In addition to reading the ancestors’ news in the burned bones, this man claimed to control the weather over the imperial palace. He never said what it was going to be but claimed to have made it what it was.

“The priest grew suspicious of Marco’s influence. He ordered Kublai to summon Marco to explain his faith, ‘for that is the doorway to his inner mind,’ he said.

“Marco came as ordered. The strange-eyed shaman stood silent, his dark orange robe torn and spotted, his hair unkempt under his flat hat made of red fox paws. He smelled stale.

“‘Explain your faith, Venetian,’ Kublai ordered in a dry voice.

“Marco was at a loss. He knew the rites and rituals of his church, he could recite the creed and the prayers, but to say what his faith was?

“His hands went cold. Mustafa had not prepared him for this.

“The two men waited.

“Kublai’s stare did not unsettle him so much as the old priest’s eyes, for with the one he would squint; then he’d bend down holding his hat to tilt his head so the other could take him in.

“Then Marco remembered a lesson he’d heard as a boy.

“‘Late one winter afternoon,’ he said in a voice so soft Kublai and the priest had to lean forward to hear, ‘a sparrow slipped into a warm room through a crack, flitted across, then flew out again into winter darkness. So the life of man appears to me, Sire, here for a little season, but of what follows or what has gone before we have no idea. My faith is that by following the law of Christ, our prophet, there is hope of continuing warm. For that hope I believe His law is worthy to be followed.’

“The priest had closed his eyes. Kublai sat silent for a long moment.

“‘When you arrived,’ Kublai said at last, ‘I asked you what you missed most of your home. You spoke of sounds. Today I ask you for your faith and you speak of hope. There is no substance to those things.’

“He shook his head. ‘Go. Bring news. Bring me a remedy for the pain that burns my joints.’

“Despite his fear, by now Marco had come to love the old man,” the doctor continued, “so everywhere
where he went, he hunted for medicines, but for what Kublai suffered, there was no cure.”

Mark glanced at the doctor’s hands.

Hornaday noticed and shrugged. “Every time Marco returned from a trip,” he went on, “he’d report on wars in neighboring lands, rulers overthrown, armies in revolt, civil war, and tell the stories he’d heard there. Kublai usually knew the news and he must have known some of the stories too, but he loved hearing Marco tell them.

“Returning from one assignment, Marco told Kublai about the caliph of Baghdad, who had raided and robbed his neighbors to get up a huge pile of gold. ‘Everyone around knew how greedy he was,’ Marco reported, ‘and how brutal. There were plots to overthrow him, but the caliph had a large army and the city walls were strong. He sat fat and safe on a thick pile of rare carpets.

“‘Then a man even greedier heard about him.

“‘This man, a general named Hulegu, got all the secrets about the strength and wealth of Baghdad.

“‘Hulegu figured he couldn’t beat the caliph’s army head-on, so he planned a trick.

“‘He marched his troops toward Baghdad faster than word of them could travel, wiping out all the outlying garrisons and towns that might send warning.

“‘While still miles away from the great walled city, he divided his force into three parts. He hid one part in the woods by the river Tigris, spreading them out behind trees, in the tall grass, and in trenches they dug and then covered over with dirt, leaves, and branches.

“‘The second part he had bury itself in the weeds and mud of the marsh wilds beyond the river.

“‘When morning came, Hulegu marched what looked like a puny pretend army toward the great bronze gates of Baghdad, banners flying, kettle drums booming, battle horns dinning.

“‘Hulegu had his bagpipers out front bleating their strange music while he followed behind, unarmed and bareheaded on his great white horse. He wore a vest of glittering gold chain. His men wore helmets of shined copper decorated with wooden beaks, eagle feathers, and painted eyes so they looked like the heads of monster birds. The horses wore greased leather battle aprons that looked like sheets of oiled metal.

“‘The caliph was surprised, but the attacking force was small, so he was not frightened. He sneered at his enemy’s strange helmets. He laughed as he unfurled his banner of Muhammad and rode out to destroy them.

“‘Those helmets, though, and the bagpipes, scared his soldiers, and when their horses sniffed the breeze, they turned skittish.

“‘Hulegu had ordered his horses’ battle aprons smeared with stinking rancid yak butter and the powerful dung of that animal. The smell was nothing to his mounts—they’d been trained to it—but it spooked the caliph’s, which knew nothing of yaks.

“‘Even so, the caliph’s captains ordered their men forward, screaming over their fear, whipping their horses until blood dripped.

“‘As the caliph’s men approached, Hulegu’s force scattered, swirling away like a flock of starlings, then gathering and aiming toward their hidden comrades.

“‘Once the caliph’s men entered into the trap, Hulegu’s soldiers rose up on all sides, banging boards together to sound like many more than they were.

“‘Confused and terrified, the caliph’s men were slaughtered, he was captured, Baghdad taken.

“‘Hulegu went to the treasure tower. There was even more gold than rumored.

“‘He ordered the caliph brought before him.

“‘“Caliph,” he said, “why have you heaped up all this gold? Why didn’t you hire more knights to fight the likes of me?”

“‘The caliph spat and said nothing.

“‘“So,” said Hulegu, nodding slowly. “I see how it is with you. Well, since you love gold so much, I’ll leave you your own to eat.”

“‘He ordered the caliph sealed in his treasure tower, then called from the outside, “Caliph! Swallow all the gold you want! You will get nothing else!”

“‘The caliph was a big tubby man, but at the end of four days he was dead.’

“Kublai nodded slowly when Marco finished. ‘I know that story,’ he said.

“Marco blushed. ‘Forgive me, Sire,’ he said, ‘but why did you allow me to tell you something you already knew?’

“‘To test your care,’ the old man replied. ‘A story is like a bowshot. The bow must be taut, the arrow straight, and the aim true, or the point goes to nothing. You did well.’

“No praise ever meant more to Marco.”

Mark nodded. He knew how he’d feel if he ever heard the words “You did well” from his dad.

“The emperor began sending Marco farther and farther afield,” the doctor continued, “one stint to inspect the wild regions of Tibet, another to Burma and India and back by sea. Some of those trips took years.

“‘So, Venetian!’ Kublai would bark in his high voice when Marco returned. ‘Speak! Empty your head to me or I will cut it off!’

“‘At such a place,’ Marco reported after one trip, ‘the Golden King’s lieutenants decorate their upper arms by taking a cluster of sharp quills tied together and stabbing their own flesh until the blood comes. They rub the wound with grains of a soft black stone found there. If the wound does not infect, the design lasts like a scar and is borne as a jewel. For some, though, the black grains act as a slow poison and they die. This is taken as proof that they were unworthy of the ornament.

“‘There are huge serpents at that place,’ he said, ‘lizards ten paces in length and in bulk as big around as a vinegar cask. They have two clawed forelegs near the head, and the mouth is big enough to swallow a man whole. Their eyes rise in horny lumps off the snout like loaves of bread.

“‘These serpents are creatures of custom. They follow the same muddy trails from water hole to water hole. The hunters take them by planting blades of sharpened bamboo in the steep ruts they follow, so as the crocodile slithers along and begins his slide into the water, he slits himself from throat to tail.

“‘The huntsmen extract its gall and sell it for a great price as medicine against the bite of a mad dog, cure for the itch, and remedy for sore joints.

“‘I brought you some, Excellency,’ Marco said, handing over a tube made of bamboo.

“Kublai lifted the pelts that covered his swollen ankles and rubbed on the salve.

“‘Yesterday,’ the old man muttered, ‘the fifty witches sent by the king of Chosen—Korea—came here in their stinking fish-skin boots to cure me with their sacred chickens. They danced and shouted and wrung chicken necks until the air filled with blood and feathers and the women fell down senseless.

“‘I hope your medicine serves me better! I sent them off with a curse, but if your remedy fails …’

“He paused and narrowed his eyes. ‘As it will …’

“Marco bowed low.

“Kublai laughed. ‘Stand up, Venetian. Bowing does not become you.’

“Returning from another trip, Marco said, ‘My lord, the mountain people at such a place do not swim, and they do not know about boats. When they come to a deep river, they sew skins together to hold their goods, tie the bundles to their horses’ tails, mount, and let the horses swim them across.

“‘They use no water for bathing, believing it a sin to corrupt water with the filth of the body. To clean themselves they have their slaves scald their skins with hot scented oil and scrape their bodies all over just as we scrape a hide to take off the hair. So they remove whatever hair they have, for they consider such hair unsightly, even their eyebrows.’