Looking for Marco Polo

by Alan Armstrong

  “Marco caught himself. Hadn’t Mustafa warned him never to show his feelings?

  “‘Sounds?’ Kublai asked, pulling at his thin beard. ‘Of all the things of Venice, you miss her sounds the most?’

  “Marco nodded.

  “Kublai shook his head and turned away. Marco got up to leave.

  “Kublai swung back. ‘No! You may not go yet. You must first tell me about a wonderful thing of Venice—something I do not know.’

  “‘You said I might leave once I’d told you what I missed the most.’

  “‘I expected to hear about something I’d want!’ the emperor screeched. ‘Your noise of Venice is nothing. Tell me about something I might want; then you may leave.’

  “Marco took a deep breath so as not to show surprise. His mind was blank. His heart was pounding. Then it came to him.

  “‘Very well!’ he exclaimed with such force the emperor’s head jerked back and his guards jumped. ‘Send those men for paper, brush, ink, and a small table.’

  “Kublai clapped and barked the orders.

  “When all was in place, Marco rubbed his hands together and sat down. ‘I will show you one of our great miracles,’ he announced. ‘Those huge sheets of paper you order hung on your palace walls every day—your official decrees—each as long as a man is tall, filled with hundreds of the beautiful picture characters that make up your language to say a simple thing. To fashion them your clerks must work many hours painting. I am told there are thousands of those characters.’

  “Kublai nodded.

  “‘Here are ours,’ Marco said as he proceeded to write out the alphabet. ‘These few Roman characters: A, B, C, D …’ Taking up another sheet, he said, ‘Look, Excellency, see how our miracle works. The heading on each of your proclamations is two arm lengths across. Watch as I write it in our characters: Kublai Khan, Emperor of All East, Decrees …’

  “He handed the sheets to Kublai. ‘Everything that could ever be said or thought, Emperor, you may express in one arrangement or another of these letters.’

  “Kublai squinted as he studied the marks.

  “‘Enough perhaps for simple people,’ he muttered, ‘but for us who think more deeply, more is required.’

  “‘No,’ said Marco with a thin smile.

  “Kublai lurched back. No one was allowed to say no to him, but Marco pressed on.

  “‘Everything you can think to say we can express with these—even the thoughts of the great philosopher Confucius—we can express his subtlest thought in these few letters.’

  “Kublai glowered. ‘You lie, Venetian! Prove what you say! I take nothing at mouth value.’

  “‘For now you will have to take my word,’ Marco replied. ‘But someday you will send a scholar to Venice and he will learn our language. He will come back to you with all of Confucius in our few letters.’

  “Kublai made an ugly face and spat.

  “Marco turned and left.

  “The emperor flexed his immense arms and climbed the rope to ease his restlessness. He missed his ranging warrior life. He missed the freedom Marco had to travel.

  “Not that Marco was really free,” the doctor said. “He could travel throughout the emperor’s territory, but he couldn’t go home. His company was too valuable for that.”

  “He was a prisoner?” Mark asked in a tight voice as Hornaday stood, unwinding the turban.

  The doctor raised his eyebrows and nodded.

  “Then how did he get away?”

  “He almost didn’t,” the doctor said.

  Dear Dad,

  Is the Gobi as bad as Doc says? Do you have your own camel? What color is it? Doc says some of them have curls like girls’ hair on their necks. Do you watch out for her feet? He says that’s really important.

  Is there anybody like Kublai in charge where you are? I miss you a lot. I thought it was going to be a really bad Christmas here alone with Mom, but I’ve made friends with Doc’s big dog, and Doc gave me a curved knife like the caravan guys carried on the desert. Is there Christmas where you are? Will you give the herders the knives and stuff you took? I hope you are OK.

  Merry Christmas!

  Love, Mark

  17

  HIS IMPERTINENCE BEARDS THE EMPEROR

  Waves of Christmas fragrance met Mark and his mother as they started down the sixty-eight steps the next morning. Swags of balsam fir and spruce hung from the spikes and rings in the dark walls at the bottom. In one corner there was a basket of silver wands and twisted sticks covered with tiny red lights. The lights made the room glow.

  As they pushed open the heavy door into the street, they met people laughing and calling to each other as they bustled along carrying flowers, parcels of fresh bread, and brightly wrapped presents.

  Doc Hornaday and Boss were waiting for them at Signora Eh’s.

  “After breakfast,” Mark said, “I want to show Doc something.”

  * * *

  Later a chill wind gnawed as Mark led Doc and his mom along the canal.

  “There.” He pointed.

  At that moment the sun came out just as it had the first time he’d seen it. The camel on the front of the building was handsomer and redder than he’d remembered. Doc had never noticed her. Mark was proud to be the one to show her to him.

  They studied her from the calle, then they walked up to the next bridge and crossed over the canal for a closer view.

  “She might have been Marco’s camel,” Doc said. “She’s two-humped, a Bactrian—the kind they used on the Silk Road. Her humps were filled with fat—served as her gas tank. She carried water in her stomach. Camels don’t need much water because they don’t sweat or pant; they just let their bodies get hot. Temperatures that would kill us are nothing to them. It can get to over one hundred thirty degrees out there.”

  Hornaday studied the carving. “The artist who carved her really knew his camels,” he said. “Look at those eyes! I bet if we could get high up and close, we’d see her long curling eyelashes that kept out sand. Camel eyes inspired a lot of poetry.”

  “Why’s she up there?” Mark asked.

  “Maybe the merchant who built that palazzio owed his fortune to her,” the doctor said. “Maybe she carried him across the Gobi with jewels sewn in his coat, day after day in searing heat with no water as the other beasts failed….”

  Mark imagined his father somewhere out on the desert in searing heat with no water. Was a camel saving him?

  They headed back. The lanes were full of people now; all the shops were open. They walked slowly, looking in the shop windows.

  Suddenly Mark’s mom grabbed his arm.

  “Look!” she exclaimed. “The sign on that mask: ‘Marco Polo—Il Milione.’ There he is, Marco the Millionaire.”

  It was the bright pink face of a darkly bearded man. His hair was pulled back in a ponytail. He was smiling a big smile, his small teeth spaced far apart. He wore an earring shaped like a Chinese character. The mask came with a gold-colored sack stuffed with fake jewels.

  She hurried in and bought it. “To go with your pillow and the doctor’s knife,” she said as she handed it to Mark. “Put it on tonight when you lie down on that pillow. Maybe you’ll have Marco Polo dreams.”

  I already do, Mark thought.

  He put the mask to his face.

  “Yes!” his mother and Doc exclaimed together as they stared at him.

  Boss yipped and wagged.

  Back at the café Mark turned to the doctor. “Where you left off last night it was Marco’s second day at Kublai’s court. What happened?”

  Hornaday settled right into it. “That morning Marco got up at dawn. A line was forming outside the palace, ordinary people, men and women, rich and poor, in every sort of costume. Who were these people?

  “When Kublai got to the palace, he read the dispatches his night riders had brought; then he listened to his generals’ reports and the clerks’ accounts of wheat yields and taxes collected. Next the tribute bearers were allow
ed in with presents and rarities. Finally came the reports of what his people needed.”

  “Like what?” Mark asked.

  “Funds to repair a washed-out bridge, grain where a harvest had failed, relief from taxes. And teachers: they were always asking for more teachers.

  “What interested him most, though, were the appeals of individuals—the people waiting in line outside. Every hour court servants went down the line offering slices of dried apple strung on a cord and a skin of koumiss with a drinking horn. The alcohol in the koumiss helped keep them warm and alert.

  “If one of those waiting had to leave the line to obey a call of nature, he would signal to an attendant, who would stand in his place until he returned.

  “Kublai quickly dismissed the generals, clerks, and tribute bearers. Then he called in the people waiting outside. For them he had endless time.

  “They came asking him to judge their complaints, some from far away. Their disputes were about family matters, land shares, inheritances. Most quarrels like that were settled by the local chiefs, but if a party did not feel justice had been done, he could appeal to Kublai. Some did it in song, the rhythm of verses helping them remember the points of their case.”

  “But how did they get there, Doc?” Mark interrupted. “You said some came from far away.”

  “They came by horse on the post roads like the one the Polos followed to Xanadu,” the doctor explained, “resting in the stations where the soldiers quartered. There was a law that each local governor had to arrange free passage to the emperor for anyone wishing to pre sent a grievance.

  “Kublai didn’t hurry these petitioners. If a person’s speech was foreign or stumbling, he called for interpreters. He listened with care. He had a good memory. When he ruled, he always explained his decision.

  “It was well past noon when the last petitioner left the palace and Kublai returned to his tent. He summoned Marco.

  “‘Tell me more about crossing the Great Desert,’ he ordered. He had never been there, and he was eager for more of the strange Venetian’s talk.

  “‘I have finished that, Excellency,’ Marco replied. ‘I have told you—’

  “‘No! More!’ Kublai exclaimed, half rising from his bench. ‘Something you did not tell me before.’

  “Marco shrugged and settled himself on the floor at Kublai’s feet. This was another of Mustafa’s calculated affronts. No one ever made himself comfortable in the emperor’s presence, but before Kublai could protest, Marco had begun to speak in a voice so soft Kublai had to lean forward to hear—another of Mustafa’s tricks.

  “‘Travelers intending to cross the desert rest at Lop for a week to gather strength and arrange for guides and beasts,’ Marco began. ‘They have beautiful gardens there with pink and white oleander, rose laurel, and rushes. The afternoon we arrived they gave us sweet dates and strips of dried melon that tasted like honey. For supper we ate roast goat, lentils, spinach, and small cakes of nut paste pounded with honey.’

  “Marco’s mouth watered as he described the foods of Lop. He’d feasted there; remembering and telling of them made him hungry. His telling made Kublai hungry too. The emperor clapped his hands. Servants came with skewers of roasted lamb, a silver cup of koumiss, hot loaves of flatbread topped with honey, slices of apple and orange.

  “The young man fell silent as the fragrance of roast meat, oranges, and baked bread filled the room.

  “The emperor glared. ‘Continue!’ he mumbled through a full mouth.

  “Marco said, ‘I’m hungry too.’

  “‘Speak!’ Kublai yelled, meat crumbs and spit flying.

  “‘A dry streambed makes no sound,’ Marco replied.

  “Kublai choked. For a long moment he looked at the Venetian as if he couldn’t quite make him out. Then, puckering out his lips so the purple showed, he wagged his head from side to side, leaned back, and clapped again.

  “‘For him,’ he ordered when the servants came. ‘Provide for this dry streambed so it may continue to sing until I slice off its head.’”

  Mark grinned and pumped his fist in triumph.

  “The servants were surprised,” the doctor continued. “Only the highest officials were invited to eat with Kublai, and they had to eat standing up and wrap their mouths and noses in veils of silk embroidered with gold so their smell and breath would not come to Kublai’s food. They had to cover their mouths with those napkins, too, when they giggled nervously at any joke the emperor made. Kublai himself rarely laughed. Angered or amused, he usually squinted, puffed out his lips, and wagged his head a little.

  “When the servants brought Marco his napkin, he spread it in his lap. He never covered his mouth like the others did, and every plate the servers offered he seized and kept. Squatting on the thickest carpet, with knife and fingers he ate an emperor’s meal: roasted nuggets of lamb, yogurt mixed with honey, saucer-shaped loaves of bread touched with salt. He washed his dinner down with a cup of koumiss.

  “The koumiss warmed him. Kublai downed four cups. He was easier to deal with after his koumiss. He and his lieutenants drank little water; they drank koumiss all day long. On the steppes the wild horsemen offering koumiss to a guest would assist him in drinking by pulling his ears with great force to open his throat wider.”

  Mark cut in. “Sounds like they were drunk all the time!”

  “Maybe,” Hornaday said.

  “Kublai kept making all these threats,” Mark said. “Would he really kill Marco?”

  “Maybe,” said the doctor. “Who would stop him?”

  “Marco’s father and uncle?” Mark suggested.

  Hornaday shook his head. “They weren’t even allowed in the tent, and, anyway, they had no authority. Marco was on his own.”

  Hornaday continued with the story. “‘So, Venetian,’ Kublai bellowed as Marco wiped his lips, ‘are you strong enough to speak again?’

  “‘Yes, Excellency. Thank you,’ the young man said with a burp.

  “‘Then do so!’ Kublai roared with so much fury his guards reached for their curved knives.

  “Marco cleared his throat and spat on the floor as Mustafa had instructed him. Mongols spat a lot, but again the guards were startled, because in Kublai’s tent it was the custom that visitors carried a small vase for spitting so as not to soil the handsome carpets of silk and velvet.

  “‘Many in the desert are diseased in the eyes,’ Marco began, ‘from exposure to the constant sun and the fine dust of the desert, or perhaps from the bites of flies that attack the eyes at all hours. The pupil goes cloudy; then the ball becomes like white stone. The women paint around their eyes to prevent the flies’ biting. The men smear on a paste of minerals and oil.

  “‘We treated them with an ointment we got in Syria. Some were helped, but none that had lost sight. I brought you a jar, Sire.’

  “Kublai opened the jar. Inside was an odorless oily white cream.

  “‘How do you use this?’ he asked.

  “‘You smear a small bit on the affected place. It soothes.’

  “‘Do you know the secret of it?’

  “‘What do you mean, Excellency?’

  “‘Can you make it?’

  “Marco shook his head. ‘The apothecaries in Syria take a rare mineral quarried in the mountains and roast it in the hottest fire they can make. From the ash remaining they prepare this white material, which they mix with rarefied sheep tallow. They call it tutty. That is all I know.’

  “‘Hah!’ spat Kublai. ‘You lie! You are saving the secret of it for your doctors in Venice. You will show us the trick of making it,’ he said grimly. ‘I will order a hundred of our Chinese who are trained in the healing arts to examine this and make the same. They will test it on you! Now resume your travels,’ he growled.

  “Marco clenched his teeth and swallowed hard.

  “‘Cotton grows at Lop, Excellency,’ he said. ‘It is the best material for desert garb. There are fields of bushes blooming balls of that rare wool. Behind the
low boundary walls of sundried clay there are also palm and vegetable gardens, orchards, and flowers.

  “‘At the edge of the desert they have made it green with water led for miles from the Flame Hills in tiled tunnels that look like mounds flung up by gigantic moles. Where the land flattens out, the water is led to the fields and orchards in lined channels laid under the ground. One channel may have two hundred openings.

  “‘Everything around is barren, but where the pipes serve, they grow onions, carrots, and spinach. For fruit they have date palms, figs, sweet apples, and white grapes the size of mare tits, which they dry into raisins and send off for trade by the hundredweight on the camel caravans. Their great delicacy, though, they save for themselves: tiny green raisins, green as grass, Sire—these,’ he said, handing the emperor a small cotton sack filled with tiny green fruits bright as jewels.

  “Kublai reached out eagerly. He emptied the sack into his palm and began to gobble the raisins in clots, nodding as he chewed.

  “‘More!’ he mumbled. ‘More!’

  “‘Through those tunnels,’ Marco continued, ‘they water fields of cotton for the fine white fibers they spin and weave into cloths like this, Sire,’ he said, handing Kublai a square of brown, scarlet, and green. ‘Those are the colors of that place.’

  “Kublai had a palace full of such things, but it pleased him that the Venetian had thought to bring him a sample. He smiled.

  “Marco saw his opportunity. ‘Please, Sire, answer the question I put to you when I arrived: why do you with your thousands on thousands, as you said, demand of us a hundred of our teachers?’

  “Kublai sat back. ‘You ask the question my oldest son should ask,’ he murmured more to himself than to Marco.

  “‘Because you can conquer on horseback,’ he replied, ‘but you cannot rule on horseback. Would there have been a Roman Empire without mortar? You need the discipline of shared belief to bind people together. You can force them to submit with a large army, but every time the army moves away, there will be rebels and revolutions. What is required is a force greater than arms. There is no force greater than belief.