Looking for Marco Polo

by Alan Armstrong

  “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.

  “‘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.”