Marco Polo spoke in a most grandfatherly manner. “Do you wish me to tell you why I am here, my son? I shall try. But I am old and weak and may forget parts. Unfortunately I cannot die, so I only have eternity to regret my rash act.
“Know then, my son, that I visited the Pope in Rome—I have forgotten his name, alas—and told him quite clearly that I had in my possession the secret to eternal life and that I wished him to decide what should be done with it. Should we destroy it forever, keep it secret, or hand it over to humanity? There were many philosophical and religious questions that needed to be answered, I believed.
“I spoke of the circumstances of China, of the Zamorin, and so on. But then I saw that he was not interested—no one pays attention to the old, my son—and thought I was talking nonsense. I concluded that I would have to do something about the matter myself.
“I returned to Venice and thought about the matter carefully.
“I decided that I would go to the place mentioned in the map and find out the truth, no matter how hard it might be. What did I have to lose? At best or at worst my life. Had I not enjoyed a full life? How could Marco Polo not travel himself? What was the point of giving away the secret to people who doubt and lack humility?
“I then searched for an old man who might look like me and who was perhaps dying. It was quite easy. A forgotten man lay dying in a village nearby, his life ebbing away. His name was Alberto, I recall. He had no one to call his own and no one would mourn his passing. He agreed to die as Marco Polo as he would be guaranteed a proper burial. I took him home and made him Marco Polo. We had a good chuckle, two old men, finding the idea amusing. We looked in the mirror and laughed at ourselves and thought it would be a great joke. I think he saw beyond the mirror into the other world. He looked forward to dying soon and was happy that we looked so similar. Perhaps all old men look the same at the end. But the old are happy in a different way—the journey is to end. So many years of endless activity, all ultimately pointless. Exhaustion. Emotion. Frustrations. Disappointments. Surges of extreme happiness and sadness. For what?
“I hid in a house nearby and watched Alberto slowly die. A priest was called. He asked Alberto to confess and accept that my stories were false. But what was he to confess to? Those were not his stories in any case. He refused, quite rightly. And he died shortly.
“I saw my own funeral from a distance. The priests argued about burying me as they felt I had not confessed to lying. It was all quite amusing. Finally, Alberto was buried and there was a great fuss about him. I am sure he would have enjoyed the joke.
“I then left for this very place, accompanied by two sturdy servants whom I had sworn to secrecy.
“We travelled to Rome and Sicily and Alexandria. Then we travelled down the Nile. It was not very difficult, though, of course, it was very hot. It was only a problem because of my age and sickness, but I surprisingly became better and better. The climate suited me. After many weeks, we reached the Fourth Cataract of the Nile and found Napata.
“I found the valley. Though no one had heard of it, it was not difficult to find because the location in the map had been precise.
“We entered the valley, yes, this very one, my son. It was quite like this. Did you come by a village? Yes, it was there then, too, though there were perhaps fewer than ten huts then. Is it bigger now? I never leave this place, so I do not know. None of us do.
“We reached this place, yes, this very one. These six men and women were there and, let me tell you, my son, they looked exactly like this when I met them first. You seem shocked; do not be.
“They confronted me and asked me to leave immediately. Since I was older—I simply looked older but, as you will see, it is they who are much older, my son!— they were considerate and allowed me to rest. They made it clear that we should leave soon.
“But I showed them what I had copied on a piece of paper from memory. They became very respectful. They were able to read the script well and, in fact, had an exact copy with them which they showed me later. It was the chant as prescribed by the priests of their king.
“There are instructions for the chant as you know. They must be spoken in a certain way, at a certain time, at a certain place in the valley. Yes, that man there, Signore Holmes, he understands perfectly.
“We had to wait a while more. In the meanwhile, I dismissed my servants and asked them to return to Venice. I do not know if they reached the city.
“We waited for a few weeks, during which time, I befriended the six men and women. Without a common language, it was initially quite difficult to communicate but we managed well enough. Of course, I now speak their language quite well. They showed me the sacred spot where they themselves had performed the ceremony, my son.”
“What ceremony?” asked Father Ciasca.
“Ah, I have jumped ahead! How old do you think these men and women are, my son?” Marco Polo pointed at the others.
“Their age? Let me see, they all seem to be in their twenties, do they not?”
“No. They are about two thousand years old,” he smiled.
“Two thousand? That is impossible, sire!” Father Ciasca was horrified.
“Unfortunately, it is true, my son. You yourself have come searching for eternal life. The secret was found two thousand years ago by the priests of their king and they were the only group of citizens that the king insisted should test the chant. They were sent into the valley and forbidden to return. They shall live forever.”35
“Forever? How can it be, sire?”
“You ask that question, my son, but again, I repeat, you are here because you want to find out how to also live forever. You do not want to die. Am I right? If you are willing to believe such a thing, then why should you be surprised that someone else is already doomed to live forever? It is a horrible curse, my son. Pity them, for only fire or some other disaster will destroy their bodies. Pity me! How old do you think I am? More than five hundred years ago I cheated death in Venice but now have to see day and night dissolving into each other forever. What benefit could you possibly see? What power could possibly accrue from living forever?”
Father Ciasca looked suitably contrite.
Marco Polo sighed. He seemed overwhelmed by sadness. “I could blame my time for wanting to find out whether it was truly possible to live forever. A very stupid and dangerous gamble. I cannot blame these men and women, as their king ordered them to live forever. But you, my son, have you not learned from our mistakes? What is it, 1893? What is the meaning of progress if you seek that which will destroy by keeping alive? I weep for you.”
“Who is that evil man?” asked Marco Polo, pointing at Professor Moriarty standing at a distance. “I know he is not to be trusted.”
Father Ciasca started to respond, but Marco Polo raised his hand. “I understand. He wants the chant and wants to live forever. We know what to do. This is not the first time this has happened. It is fine.
“It is time for all of you to go, my sons. You must not stay here. They will make a soup for all of you and prepare bread as part of their banquet for visitors who stray into the valley by mistake. You must have it and go. Never come back.”
“And you, sire?”
Marco Polo smiled sadly. He shook his head. “I am cursed. I must stay here. Forever.”
“You, sir,” he beckoned to Sherlock Holmes, speaking in French. “Let us go for a walk while they prepare the meal. I wish to show you something.”
Marco Polo and Holmes walked slowly away toward a grove. Meanwhile, the inhabitants went back to their village and returned with food. After a couple of hours, with the meal ready and Marco Polo and Holmes having returned after their long, private confabulation, we were asked to sit down at a rough table made of stone. We were served some exotic fare—brown rice, fish, some vegetables, and some excellent soup. They insisted that we have plenty of vegetable soup saying it would gi
ve us energy and keep us in good spirits till we reached our destination. I did not like the taste somehow and had only a spoonful. The rest consumed vast quantities, swearing by the fragrance.
Holmes and I said good-bye to Marco Polo. I realized that I was experiencing something remarkable, something that no one would believe when I reported. I will have to live with taunts and derision, perhaps.
Then we mounted our horses and camels and bid good-bye. Already, the heavy food and the stress of the previous days had made us sluggish.
We waved at the seven inhabitants of the valley. Marco Polo waved back, smiling sadly, I thought.
It had been a remarkable experience.
I recall that we somehow made our way out of the valley. We were led by one of the inhabitants who returned after taking us as far as the village.
All of us were overtaken by sleep.
***
When I woke, I found that the animals had taken us to an area near the Nile. There was not a soul in sight. Everyone else was still asleep on their steeds and camels, which were standing quietly. Who had led us there? I could not tell where we were; the place seemed entirely unfamiliar.
I realized that we had been drugged. I had only consumed a very small amount of the soup and that was probably why I was still in command of my senses and had been the first to awaken.
It took almost a complete day for the rest of the group to become conscious. I saw that everyone, including Holmes and Professor Moriarty, was considerably disoriented.
“Where are we now, Watson?” asked Holmes, holding his head in his hands.
“I do not know, Holmes. All I recall is that we were led out of the valley.”
“What are you raving about, man?” Holmes was irritated.
“I believe we were drugged in the Valley, Holmes. That is why you are so sleepy and disoriented.”
Indeed, everyone was still staggering in a pitiable way, holding their heads and stomachs and moaning. It was an unnerving sight.
Professor Moriarty, Father Ciasca, and the guards were in a similar condition. They had walked with great difficulty to the Nile and washed their faces. Then they came back and collapsed in a heap near their horses.
“Holmes? Is that you? Yes, it is Holmes! You will pay for this!” shrieked Professor Moriarty before going into paroxysms of pain.
“And why must I be given credit for this, whatever it is?” inquired Sherlock Holmes, observing his adversary writhing in agony.
“You are behind this! I am sure of it!”
“Not at all. I myself am severely inconvenienced. My last recollection is of us leaving the valley, sent off by Marco Polo. I see that we are without any of our belongings. An unfortunate situation.”
“Mama mia! The pain! My head!” Father Ciasca moaned in pain.
I was quite puzzled to witness this extraordinary behaviour. Many grown men were walking about unsteadily, moaning and screaming, holding various parts of their bodies. Other than a very slight headache, I was quite fine and had none of the symptoms of the others.
“I suggest that I tend to all of you,” I said.
Holmes and I gathered all the men and made them sit down on the ground. Then I looked at Holmes with growing concern. He looked pale and weak. Was it my imagination or were his eyes dull? He seemed utterly fatigued, a mere shell of the upstanding, alert man I knew so well.
Meanwhile, all the rest were still in acute discomfort. The entire group would need time to recover. I guessed it would be a good two days of care and nourishment. I managed quite well, given that someone had thoughtfully provided us with minimal provisions. It was a crude hospital, with no facilities at all, except a doctor (me) and access to the Nile. At a distance, I could see some crocodiles staring thoughtfully at us. I ensured that we made a nice barrier between us and the rest of the raw wilderness. We had no idea where we were, except that we were collectively ill but not, apparently, likely to die.
By the end of the second day, everyone was able to converse. Professor Moriarty, Father Ciasca, and the Italians were isolated and still watched; trusting them was impossible. The evil within Professor Moriarty remained. He had been thwarted by a power greater than he could manage. I finally had time to sit back and think.
I recall standing still for a while, completely dazed. Holmes was watching me quietly from a distance. He was leaning against a large rock.
“Holmes!” I cried. “The matter is most extraordinary! It is beyond fantastic!”
“Indeed, Watson? You surprise me. When have I seen you last in such a mood?”
“It is singular, Holmes! Did we actually meet Marco Polo? Were we hallucinating, Holmes?” I was very agitated.
“Watson, if there was ever anyone who needed medication urgently, I believe it would be you. Come to your senses, man! Of course it was Marco Polo himself! Let us take stock: One, we have evidently been drugged and sent away. Two, we are here in the middle of nowhere, with nothing except our clothes on. And three, we have the pleasure of Professor Moriarty and Father Ciasca’s company.”
“Holmes, we were saved by Marco Polo! Who would believe us in London, Holmes? What would we say?”
Holmes had pulled out his pipe. He filled it with tobacco and lit it.
“Marco Polo did you say, Watson? Ah, but of course! Mr. Marco Polo from Venice, Italy? It is rumoured that he moved on to better climes almost half a millennium ago. But you now say he is in the vicinity, saving people in distress. This comes as a surprise or a shock depending on your perspective. I must report to the Royal College of Surgeons that a fine colleague has been the victim of a sunstroke. Tut. A charming tale, Watson. I am just joking, my dear fellow, forgive me, an excusable liberty, I would hope! I quite agree that it would be difficult to convince anyone, including your wife, a lady of the finest intelligence, that we could have met Marco Polo! But I see possibilities in this exotic tale! Shakespeare should feel uneasy about his position. Next you will say there was a mysterious woman who—”
“But there was, Holmes, there was! A woman looked after you for a day!” I cried.
Holmes clicked his tongue in exasperation. “Really, you babble like a brook today, Watson. Amusing in itself but after a point…”
Sherlock Holmes made a gesture of impatience and put his hand in his trouser pocket.
His face changed. He slowly brought out a bracelet.
“What kind of prank is this, Watson?” Holmes was annoyed.
“Am I capable of such a strange prank, Holmes?” I cried.
Holmes paused and considered the matter. “Yes, you are right, Watson. You are right. You could not have done this.”
Something in the way he said it annoyed me.
“For the life of me, Watson, I have no recollection of having kept this bracelet in my trouser pocket. This is preposterous.”
“Let me see it,” I said, and examined the bracelet.
“That is exactly the same bracelet that she was wearing!” I gasped. “This is proof, Holmes!”
“Watson, my good fellow!”
“You will have to believe me, Holmes. A woman tended to you. She must have given you this bracelet as a gift and put it in your pocket!”
Holmes looked at the bracelet closely.
“Hmm. Unusual workmanship and material. Silver, traces of gold perhaps, unusual stones, amethyst certainly. I would hazard it is hundreds of years old, though one can see that it is of Tuareg origin. You will undoubtedly recall my monograph on the jewellery of the Kazakhs. I presented it to my friends in a tightly knit forum of scholars who have extensive knowledge and interest in the matter. But this is fascinating, Watson, fascinating.”
Holmes put down the bracelet. He scratched his chin thoughtfully.
“I digress. I am inclined to consider your wild proposition a little more carefully now, Watson.
In the meanwh
ile, it appeared that the group was now restive and ready to move on. We gathered around Holmes, as he beckoned to everyone. The mood was sombre.
“My friends. We must now move on. We do not know where we are and how it happened that we have reached here. Please speak up if you have any ideas.”
One of the Tuaregs spoke.
“These two men have something to do with it, I am quite sure. Let us put them to death.”
The others nodded in vigorous assent. Professor Moriarty and Father Ciasca had not achieved any level of popularity with the men. One the Tuaregs took out a long sword and moved closer to Professor Moriarty. To his credit, he did not flinch. Father Ciasca, on the other hand, turned pale and hid behind Professor Moriarty, cringing like a little boy behind his father.
Hasso commanded the man to stop. “Wait, nothing must be done in haste. This is not the time to take decisions other than on matters of survival. What is your suggestion, Father?”
Holmes beckoned to Hasso and spoke briefly to him. He nodded in response.
He spoke out loudly in Tamasheq to his friends. “The Father suggests that we follow the Nile south. We shall probably reach Khartoum soon and then we can think better. We shall take the Italian guards with us to Khartoum as prisoners and decide their fate there. As far as these two evil men are concerned, he suggests that two of us take them along the Nile in the northern direction.”
Holmes translated for my benefit.
I was shocked. I hissed in a loud whisper. “Holmes! How can you just let Professor Moriarty go? He is wanted by so many for so many crimes! You must apprehend him.”
Holmes spoke in a quiet undertone in my ears. “Watson, please think. The probability of both of them surviving a trek back toward Cairo walking along the Nile is slim. Cobras, crocodiles, hostile locals, no money, sand, baking heat that they are not used to. Do they look fit? No.
“If they do survive, which is quite unlikely, they would return without what it was that they were looking for. We are still ahead. They do not have the chant. And to your point about Professor Moriarty being ‘wanted.’ I regret to inform you that he is not wanted as no crime—not one—has been ascribed to him directly. In fact, he is a perfectly respectable law-abiding citizen. Of course, I do know the reality. But without proof, what can anyone do? Neither the Sûreté nor Scotland Yard believe he is responsible for the many outrageous scandals that we know have his imprint. And on what grounds and authority may I apprehend someone in Sudan and transport him to London?”
Sherlock Holmes, The Missing Years: Timbuktu Page 28
