“‘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.
19
THE PLOT
“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.’
“‘Did you allow yourself to be washed in their manner?’ Kublai asked.
“‘I did, Sire. I suffered blisters and many cuts. My skin burned for weeks after, and I smelled evil to myself, but the people smiled and said it made me handsome and pleasant of aroma—as handsome and pleasant, they said, as one of my color might be, for my color and body smell they found offensive.
“‘After dinner their chief and his women danced to horns and a rhythm of tambourines and drums—like this, Sire,’ Marco said, taking a small tambourine from his coat and rattling and thumping it as he shuffled the steps he’d seen, until Kublai began to sway slightly on his throne as he imagined those women weaving to the wail of horns and the thrum of drums and tambourines.
“‘Coming out of those mountains, Emperor, I entered a world of yellow haze—dust of the plains carried on the winds like smoke. The people there say it is not unusual for the air to be hazy in that way for months at a time. Only when the rains come does it go away. Many suffer from breathing it, Sire, and it hurts the eyes. The farmers say it is their best soil blowing into the next world.’”
The doctor paused.
“As you might imagine, some of the emperor’s Mongol barons grew jealous of the attention Kublai paid Marco and the gifts he gave him—embroidered silks, rubies, peacock feathers, pots of musk—that otherwise might have gone to them.
“At first they said to one another, ‘Never mind, he will soon run out of stories, and then the emperor will tire of him.’ But two months, a year, two, and still Marco held Kublai’s attention, sometimes for as much as an hour after he met with his clerks and the petitioners in the morning.
“‘He is taking what belongs to us,’ the jealous ones whispered to one another.
“A small group of those people conspired to poison Marco with something slow—a poison added to his salt.
“Kublai read their minds. He knew they were jealous. He mistrusted the Venetian too—he mistrusted everyone. That’s the way it is with rulers: they set spies to watch their spies. Kublai paid his spies well and made sure they were unaware of each other.
“The emperor had assigned spies to watch Marco—to follow him, report on him, protect him, taste his food before it reached his lips, do what he did. More than one of them collapsed trying to keep up with Marco. The agent who suffered the bath of hot oil with him died.
“The conspirators bribed one of those spies to bring them any news that might discredit the Venetian. From him they learned about Marco’s practice of carrying small squares of paper everywhere and stoppi
ng as he traveled to fill them with marks and tiny sketches.
“They ordered the bribed spy to bring them some of those notes. Using his seal of authority, this man entered Marco’s chambers in the imperial guest suite and stole a few of the squares.
“At first the conspirators couldn’t make anything of them. ‘It’s a secret Venetian code,’ they agreed, ‘but what’s it about?’ They puzzled for days over his marks. Then they came upon the ones with marks and dashes. These got them excited like a hive of stirred-up wasps. They paced around the table where they had some of Marco’s strips laid out, fiddling and rearranging, trying to make something of the strange patterns.
“Suddenly the youngest of them, the one they called No Mouth because his nose seemed to meet his chin, cried out that he’d broken the code.
“‘It’s a map of our armies,’ he said, pointing to the squares with dots and dashes he’d arranged like the boundary of Kublai’s domain.
“‘Each dot stands for a place; the dashes show the troop strengths.’
“Smirking, giggling, chortling, and hugging one another, the conspirators toasted No Mouth with cups of rice wine. ‘We’ve got him!’ they exclaimed. ‘Here is treason! Everything Kublai has given to him will be distributed to us.’
“They hurried to Kublai. ‘He is a spy, a traitor,’ No Mouth exclaimed as he showed the emperor the squares of paper.
“‘Are there more?’ Kublai demanded.
“‘Many, Sire.’
“‘Gather them all.’
“The spy was sent back to Marco’s room. He took all the squares he could find.
“The chief conspirator presented them to Kublai.
“The emperor summoned Marco.
“‘So, Venetian,’ said Kublai in a strange voice, ‘these people have shown me your maps and notes of stolen secrets.’
“Kublai picked up one of the slips.
“‘Reveal your secret, traitor,’ he hissed.
“The conspirators, sure they had their man, grinned and shuffled with excitement.
“Slowly Kublai turned to look at them. There was something in his look that froze them. Spittle began dribbling down No Mouth’s chin.
“Kublai turned to Marco. ‘Reveal the secret in this one,’ he ordered. ‘These dots up and down, these dashes and slash marks—that man there says this is a map showing the locations of our armies. Explain, Venetian!’
“Marco studied the slip and began to sing the chant music of Tibet.
“As Kublai’s priest listened, his odd eyes rolled and wandered. He recognized the music. How did Marco learn it? he wondered. How did he remember it?
“‘And this one?’ Kublai demanded, pushing another square of paper at Marco.
“Again the Venetian sang, a different song this time. And so it went, through all the chants and songs Marco had sung to Kublai, for it was the song slips the conspirators had taken as proof of Marco’s treachery.
“‘So,’ said the emperor, turning to the assembled plotters at last. ‘Who else schemed to rid me of the Venetian? Who told you he was taking bribes and selling secrets?’
“They held themselves motionless, silent as stones.
“‘Very well,’ he said with a thin smile. ‘You know my ways of finding out.’
“No one heard their screams, but the next afternoon when Marco entered the white tent, he saw fresh blood and hair on Kublai’s sword.
“Although the old priest had known of the plot, he was spared, because he told Kublai the ancestors had predicted everything.
“He was waiting in his filthy robes and fox-paw hat when Marco returned to Kublai’s tent. He gave the Venetian an evil look with his bulging eye. His hands shaped the tying of a knot.
“It was the sign for ‘You are next.’
“A shiver went through Marco.”
Mark shivered too.
20
ESCAPE!
Mark’s mother rose from the table, pointing to the guttering candles.
“Everyone’s left,” she said. “We’re keeping the signora. She must dress for church—the midnight Mass.”
“No, wait,” said Mark. “How did Marco get away?”
“Please, how?” asked the signora. “If I do not hear, I do not sleep. I go to Mass tomorrow.”
Mark’s mother sat down. “How did Marco escape?” she asked.
“Luck,” said the doctor. “Every time Marco mentioned his desire to go home, the Great Khan’s face would grow terrible and he’d make a dark noise. The Polos understood that without the emperor’s permission they’d never be able to leave. They were free to travel, but only within Kublai’s domain. They were watched. Kublai’s men knew everything about them.
“The Polos had been in Kublai’s court for almost twenty years. The emperor was nearing eighty. They were anxious to get out before he died, because they knew the Mongol custom: those who were close to the dead ruler, especially foreigners, were executed by people loyal to his successor.
“When a ruler died, every person who happened to encounter his funeral procession was put to the sword. ‘Go!’ the cortege attendants would cry. ‘Serve your lord in the next world!’
“So the Polos drifted toward a sure and grisly end until the night a squad of post riders accompanying three royal messengers from Tabriz came ringing bells and blowing trumpets as their horses thundered through the palace gates.
“The messengers were filthy, their faces cracked, eyes bloodshot and sunken, their bodies ravaged. They’d ridden for weeks, resting not more than four hours in twenty-four, to bring news that the wife of Kublai’s cousin at Tabriz had died in childbirth. In her last breath she’d begged her husband to marry quickly another of the same Mongol family because he was growing old and needed an heir.
“Kublai was fond of this kinsman. He ordered his wives to select the most promising young noblewoman of his court to be the bride.
“It was the way of things that the girl was not asked if she wished to marry a man three times her age who lived half a continent away. She would be told of the great honor bestowed on her and that would be that.
“It wasn’t long before Kublai’s four wives had selected a girl of the imperial Mongol blood. Kublai met her and agreed.
“Morning Flower was seventeen, finely shaped, skilled in music and dance. She could paint hundreds of Chinese characters perfectly with the black ink brush. ‘She has sweet breath and is without blemish,’ the women reported. ‘And she does not snore.’
“But how to get her safely from Kublai’s winter capital at Khanbaliq—present-day Beijing—to Tabriz? The distance was more than five thousand miles by the Road of Silk with its twistings of unpaved track and the ups and downs of the mountain crossings.
“The road was all trouble,” Hornaday continued. “Every day the emperor got news of bandits, wars, storms, floods, washed-out bridges, landslides. The princess was not told how dangerous the journey would be. She had fears and sadness enough on leaving everything and everyone she’d ever known to be the wife to a stranger who did not even speak her language.
“Her maids and attendants, too, set out in ignorance, but not the six hundred soldiers in her entourage. They’d heard rumors about what they faced. Despite the gallons of koumiss, the thousand flags, the fireworks, gongs, drums, and trumpets celebrating the princess’s departure, her soldiers were sullen.
“News of the rich travelers sped ahead of them. The storms they met, the washed-out bridges and bad roads were nothing compared to the armies of bandits that picked off her scouts and rearguard troops and made desperate sallies to carry off the princess herself and her treasure.
“Often they attacked at night, shooting fire arrows into the royal camp and making terrible noises to frighten the animals. Twice they attacked in daylight, clad in white tunics and screaming like wolves at the moment the sun was drilling into the eyes of her defenders. Many of her people were lost, but the captains urged the caravan on. They knew they faced death at Kublai’s hand i
f they turned back.
“They crept westward, some days accomplishing only ten miles. They fell behind their plan to clear before winter the mountains where Marco had fallen sick.
“The snows caught them. Many of their beasts died. Soldiers and some of the royal attendants suffered frostbite, chunks of cheek falling away, fingers and toes turning black and rotting. Still they pressed on. Then one morning the captains were found murdered. That day the party turned back.
“They’d traveled for more than a year. When the survivors reported to Kublai what they’d suffered, he decided to send the princess and her retinue by sea from China to Hormuz.
“Her convoy would sail down the east coast of China, pass through the Strait of Malacca—notorious for pirates—cross the Bay of Bengal, travel north up the coast of India, cross the Arabian Sea, and sail up the Persian Gulf to Hormuz.
“Marco and his dog had just sailed much of that route. The princess’s people begged Kublai to let them have him for a guide.
“‘We are Mongols,’ they pleaded, ‘we are strangers to navigation. The ship captains are Chinese, the navigators are Arab: we do not trust any of them. They will sell us to the pirates. Only Marco can protect us. He knows how to follow the route by the stars, so he can tell if we are going the right way.’
“Kublai did not want to let Marco go, but he didn’t want to offend his kinsman either.
“Chinese merchant ships were huge, the largest in the world, some with as many as four masts and twelve sails. They had deck cabins for passengers and crews of three hundred. Kublai ordered thirteen of these fitted and provisioned for a voyage of two years.
“Each vessel carried immense cedar vats of fresh water, rice stored in sealed clay pots, tubs of sifted soil to grow fresh vegetables, coops of chickens, and flocks of goats for eggs, milk, and meat.
Looking for Marco Polo Page 14